


Missing Pages

by Schwoozie



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Awkward Conversations, Biblical References, Coming of Age, Developing Relationship, F/M, First Aid, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Injury, Introspection, Late at Night, Masturbation, Mutual Masturbation, Older Man/Younger Woman, Season/Series 02, Self Confidence Issues, Sexual Frustration, Sexual Tension, The Greene Farm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-25
Updated: 2018-03-20
Packaged: 2018-09-26 19:21:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 50,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9918005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schwoozie/pseuds/Schwoozie
Summary: After the barn and the tragedies that follow, Beth needs masturbation—her nightly ritual of stress relief—more than ever. But when Hershel invites Rick's group out of their campsite and into the house, Beth finds herself lacking the privacy she needs to take care of herself. Stressed, smothered, and tired as hell, Beth is close to her breaking point—close, that is, until the only group member to maintain a space of his own offers Beth his tent as a solution.





	1. Illumination

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally going to be a light and fluffy sex romp but Beth and Daryl decided to go all "character study" on my ass, so, here we are. Thanks to Kirsten for helping me develop the idea and generally being a bad influence.
> 
>  ***IMPORTANT:*** I am _not_ planning on aging Beth up, which means that she is 16 or 17 when this fic takes place. I didn't include an Underage warning because a) 16 is the age of consent in Georgia, and b) I associate that warning with dangerous or improper power dynamics, which will absolutely **not** be the case here. I know that the idea of Daryl having sex with under-18 Beth makes some people uncomfortable, so please be sure you're ok with that before continuing. The actual sexual content won't start for a few chapters and Daryl's involvement takes even longer to kick in, but I want to make the issue of Beth's age clear from the start. Tags will be added and the rating will go up as the story progresses.
> 
> That being said: I hope you enjoy whatever the hell this fic is going to be. I'm excited.

> _When my hand touches myself_  
>  _I can finally rest my head_  
>  _And when they say, "Take of his body"_  
>  _I think I'll take from mine instead._
> 
> _Tori Amos, "Icicle"_

Her bedroom ceiling in the dark. The most familiar sight in Beth's world; more-so than her father, her sister, her late mother's and brother's faces. Faces come and go, change, even those you love—especially those you love. But since the day Beth was born in the bedroom next door and laid in the crib that would grow into a twin bed, and then a double, she has looked up at this same ceiling. Unremarkable, really, as ceilings go. Several coats of paint have been added over the years, but the color has remained the same, and in the dark it wouldn't matter anyway.

She lies in her bed, head cradled by her pillow, and looks up. Traces the familiar map. The line of painted-over wires that snakes its way along the wall; the ceiling lamp in the corner of her vision, a round thing, scalloped, protecting two bulbs that Beth learned to change herself as soon as she was old enough to reach from the ladder. She never did it alone; someone would be there, Shawn, usually, to take the cover from her hands after she unscrewed it, hand up the fresh bulbs so she could switch them out without climbing up and down more than once.

One of the bulbs went out the day her mother died. She didn't notice until she came out of the bedroom next door, the one she was born in, where her father attended to her mother's body. She turned on the light by rote and lay on her bed; didn't bother with the sheets like she did when Shawn went, burrowing under them until they could strangle her alive. She didn't have the thought for that with Mama, or the tears to bury in her pillow. She lay on her back with her palms open at her sides and looked up and noticed that one of the bulbs had gone out.

It's been in the back of her mind since then, like a wolf ready to pounce. The knowledge that one day she'll flip the switch and the light won't go on. That she'll have to drag the ladder up from the kitchen closet, unscrew the bulbs, put in new ones. Shawn won't be there to help. No one will be; she wouldn't bother Daddy or Maggie with something she can do herself. Even if it takes longer. Even if she has to go up and down.

There are more people to help now, but she won't bother them either. Not the little girl who cut her wrist the moment she saw what the world really was; that they were right, all of them, in being afraid, because she hasn't spent a moment not afraid since then. Afraid of the walkers, afraid of the strangers in her home, afraid of herself; afraid that one day her desire to live will waver again, that Maggie will worry, that Andrea will cut her with sympathetic eyes, that Daddy will get that twitch in his mouth that means he's itching to drink.

A snore from her right turns her eyes from the ceiling, catches on Carol asleep in the dark. After the barn and what came after—what Beth heard about only in bits and pieces, listening at corners while Mr. Grimes spoke to Glenn or Daryl in rough whispers, about two men and a bar and the more that could come—Daddy decided to move the group out of their tents and into the house, and what was once a spacious farmhouse became more like a cattle pen. Wherever Beth went, wherever she moved, she found people; people like Lori who greeted her with a smile and a touch on the head, people like Mr. Walsh who brushed by her without a backwards glance. Some of the group camped out in their sleeping bags in the living room, but there were rooms available; Lori and Patricia in the spare room, Andrea with Maggie, Carl in Shawn's old room. Beth had almost protested, wanted to protest, but a cut of her father's eyes shut her mouth. She wasn't Maggie; her lips didn't fall into an angry line, or continue despite her father's warning. She lowered her eyes and pretended these people were only voices through the radio, untouchable and unable to touch her, in lands far away, telling a fiction where Beth's mother and brother were gone and the dead walked the earth and a stranger was sleeping where her brother had lain not a month before.

Beth keeps her eyes on Carol as she toys with the ties on her pajama bottoms. She used to leave them loose, but she's lost weight, a lot of weight; they would fall straight to her ankles if they weren't bound tight. She inches a finger beneath the waistband, squeezing through a dip in her skin, feeling the elastic of her plain cotton underwear. She closes her eyes and swallows, tries to focus on the feeling of her own fingers; how they press into the edges of her pubic hair, drag her underwear tighter, puts pressure on the spot between her legs. She turns back to face the ceiling, eyes still closed, fingers inching lower to the top of her slit. She's dry but she can get wet so quickly, she knows that; it would only take a few minutes–

Carol snorts in her sleep and Beth's eyes fly open, her hand shooting up her stomach to lie guiltily beneath her breasts. She shifts, tries to unwind the uncomfortable twist in her spine without moving the bed too much. The movement only pulls her panties tighter, and she closes her eyes, feels tears begin to prickle the edges. She can't cry. That would wake Carol too, and she is so, so sick of being the little girl who cries.

Beth stares at her bedroom ceiling. The smooth strokes of paint that leave the expanse light-colored and smooth in the dark. Her hand clenches in her t-shirt under her breasts and she can't stop the sob that bubbles up. It's just the one, she makes sure of it; Carol doesn't even move. But the woman's presence, her steady breathing, does nothing to slow Beth's racing thoughts; only makes them go faster, flicking to memories of being young when her mama would fall asleep reading to her, how different Carol and her mama sound asleep, how different they smell, how Beth would curl into her mama's side while even Carol's slight figure on the other side of the mattress makes her feel like she's being pushed off her own bed.

She rubs her thighs together, squeezes her eyes shut at how inadequate it all is. All of it. These strangers in her home, standing where her mama and her brother stood; pulling together as if the rifts between them aren't deep as chasms already, as if Mr. Grimes weren't sleeping against one wall in the living room and Mr. Walsh against the other while the woman they both love locks the door on them. The constant itch of the bandage on her wrist, the wound long since healed enough to be uncovered but not long enough for Beth to want to see the evidence, what she'll carry with her the rest of her (short, short, shorter than everyone's) life.

Beth bites back her frustrated sigh, digs her fingers into her sternum until it hurts. Glances at Carol again, the knit between her brows even as she sleeps, wonders if Sophia is at least comforting her in her dreams.

Beth hasn't dreamed in a long time. A blessing, probably, with all the nightmares waiting; but it also means she falls asleep and she wakes up and she's still in the same place. Staring at the same ceiling. Never a chance to be somewhere else. Someone else.

She fights the impulse to fling the covers back violently; inches them down her legs until she can swing herself out of bed, turns and leans over to make sure Carol is still covered. The woman hasn't moved an inch, and Beth is relieved and annoyed at the same time. Even after everything she's been through, she can sleep.

Beth takes another look at her ceiling. Although she has only moved a foot to the left, it looks different, wrong; shadows in the wrong place, cracks where she doesn't expect them.

She looks down, squeezes her eyes again, clenches her teeth against the tears fighting to emerge. She's sad. She's tired. She wants to scream but no matter where she goes someone will walk in and hear.

She grabs a sweatshirt from her closet—gigantic on her, the standard hoodie everyone in school got their first day at Senoia High—and leaves her bedroom, looking back at Carol one last time before closing the door with a click.

* * *

The night isn't much cooler outside than in, but at least there's a breeze, wind to sweep the humidity away. Beth slips through the front door into that freshness, walks on socked feet to the porch bannister. Inhales the air with her eyes closed, fingers dug into the wood. When she opens her eyes she sees another familiar sight. Even in the dark she knows the shape of this farm like the back of her hand. Her eyes catch on the new vehicles parked in their driveway, the camping detritus the group hasn't had the chance to pack away yet. But it's all shadow. All she needs is to squint and they vanish and the world is as it was once again.

Out here where no one can see or hear she lets a sob roll off her tongue; squeezes her eyes shut but doesn't fight too hard to stop the tears leaking from their corners. She bows forward until her forehead rests on her hands on the bannister, and when she opens her eyes her tears fall straight from her tear ducts to the ground.

The porch itself is obscured by dark, and through her misty eyes she can't even see the boards; for a moment she imagines herself floating in nothing, high above the Earth. Suspended by clouds, or God's will, holding her aloft. Taking her tears and making them rain. Making them something useful, something crops can use to grow. She closes her eyes again.

At first she thinks the clicking noise is in her mind, or some breed of cricket, so she doesn't move; doesn't think much of it until it repeats, louder this time, more insistent, and when light flares at the edge of her eyelids her eyes fly open and she straightens with a gasp.

She doesn't recognize him at first. He's one of the few in the group she hasn't shared words with; seems to follow Mr. Walsh's example in dismissing her, probably thinking her fragile, weak, not likely to be around long enough to get to know anyway.

But sometimes she thinks Daryl's reasoning is different than Mr. Walsh's. Except for Carol and Mr. Grimes and Lori once in a while, she doesn't know if she's seen him taking to anyone.

He isn't looking at her; seems engrossed by the flame flickering inside his cupped hand, shifting himself away from the wind so it stays strong long enough to light the cigarette dangling from his lips. That tiny light throws the strangest shadows across his face, catching on his cheekbones and making the rest of him recede into the night. He glances up at her right before he flicks the lighter closed, but even though she can't see anymore she can still feel his eyes on her. She has the sense he can see her much better than she can see him.

She thinks vaguely that she should be frightened. Alone on the porch with a man she doesn't know, a man Maggie's made a point more than once of steering Beth away from when he enters the room. She hasn't seen him up close since the barn. Unlike the rest of them, he decided to stay in his tent on the edge of the woods rather than move into the house. She can't imagine what he's doing here now.

She tracks his movements more by the glowing end of his cigarette than what little she can see of his body in the dark. He doesn't walk towards her like she half expects him to; moves sideways instead until he's leaning against the bannister too. She sees the shadows moving and taking shape and she thinks he's crossed his arms across his chest.

“Is everything safe?” she asks.

She doesn’t know if there's a reason he should know better than everyone else. Maybe because he's positioned himself closest to it all, that invisible barrier around the farm that's kept them whole so far. For the most part. She only heard what happened the night Dale died secondhand, but from what she's gathered Daryl's the one who found him.

He doesn't answer right away. Takes a few draws on his cigarette, reaches up to hold onto it as he blows a cloud of smoke into the night. She thinks he's still watching her but she doesn't feel like she should be frightened anymore. Instead she feels a strange calm descend over her, like this near-stranger has seen the frustration she felt in her room and and with the will of his eyes chased it away.

He's silent for long enough that she thinks he's forgotten her question. She doesn't think it's important enough to repeat; said more to acknowledge his presence than an actual query. So when he speaks, voice deep and gravelly and seeming to come from all directions at once, she's ashamed to feel herself jump again.

“Far as I know,” he says. The cigarette bobs up and down as he chews on it, regarding her. “Thought everyone was tucked away.”

Beth shrugs, her muscles relaxing after the surprise of finding him there. She rests one hand on the bannister, feels the breeze chill her skin where a tear had landed.

“Couldn't sleep,” Beth says. He doesn't move or say anything but she feels the need to explain herself. “I'm not used to... there's a lotta people in there now.”

He snorts. “Bet you're glad I stayed away.”

Beth frowns. “Well... you shouldn't be somewhere you're uncomfortable.”

He's silent, staring at her, and somehow she still feels so calm.

“It would be safer if you stayed here. For you.”

He snorts again, but softer this time. “Your sister'd strangle me in my sleep, I spent a night in this house.”

“That isn't true,” Beth says. “You deserve to be safe–“

“I'm safe where I am,” he snaps.

“What're you doing here, then?”

Beth isn't sure where the question comes from, or why she feels brave enough to ask it. It's really none of her business; this isn't her farm anymore. It never was, really; it always belonged to Daddy, but she's not completely sure that's true anymore either.

Again, Daryl is quiet for so long that she's surprised when he answers.

“Couldn't sleep,” he grunts. “Figured I'd make sure you're all locked up.” He glances upwards. “Still need to board up your windows. Least at night.”

“Why?” Beth asks. She's never heard any discussion of this.

“Don't want anything to attract attention. Ya got a light on here, it'll draw geeks like fuckin' sailors to a whorehouse.”

Beth is stunned by his language for a moment, but does her best to hide it. It makes her feel silly, that stuff like that would offend her anymore.

“You've talked to my daddy about that? Mr. Grimes?”

“Rick's got his own troubles,” he mumbles. “And your dad ain't gonna listen to me anyhow.”

“Why not? It makes sense. You might not wanna mention... whorehouses to him, but you speak up, he'll listen.”

“Got a lotta faith in your daddy,” he says.

“He is a Christian.”

The man barks with laughter. Beth closes her mouth. She isn't sure what's so funny.

“Like I said. Lotta faith.”

“What does that mean?”

“Just cause a man believes in God doesn't mean the man's worth believing in.”

“My daddy is,” Beth says, more defensively than she wants to. She can't help thinking about the walkers in the barn, how he didn't even tell her he thought Shawn and her mama could get better. She thought he'd taken them into a field and buried them somewhere, was too wracked with grief to hold a proper service. When she saw Maggie and Daddy whispering together she'd ignored it. They've always kept secrets from her; what was one more?

Except this one nearly got her killed. Nearly got them all killed. And she realizes just how silly this man must think she is.

She puts her other hand on the railing, glad the dark will hide her burning cheeks. She wonders when he'll lose interest in her and leave her alone.

He doesn't seem prepared to move himself, though. Seems just as lost in thought as she is trying to appear. It's hard to tell when the only light on his face comes from the butt of his cigarette. The moon isn't out tonight, she realizes. That's why it's so dark.

Even though her skin is still prickling for space, it feels like standing in the dark with Daryl is calming her by the minute. She's watched him since they all arrived on the farm. Watched all of them, but him most of all, maybe, because he tried so hard not to be watched. Hunching in on himself during group discussions, lingering by doors and open windows and disappearing the moment no one needs him. Those moments are growing fewer and fewer, Beth thinks; she's seen the rift opening between Mr. Grimes and Mr. Walsh too, and as that grows so too does Mr. Grimes's need for support. She's still trying to figure out why exactly he'd pick Daryl; but after these short minutes and few words she feels that now she might know a little better. In crowds he's anxious and fitful and quick to anger, his face everything her mama warned her against when she started letting Beth go to and from school by herself... but he's still standing here and she wonders if he would be if she weren't here. If she'd remained inside, if he would have retreated to his tent by now, or continued to prowl the farm until he wore himself away to sleep.

At the thought of sleep Beth feels her eyes begin to fill again, and she bites back a frustrated huff as she wipes the tears away angrily. Just a few nights ago she would have known what to do; before Carol moved in and took up half of her bed, she could take care of herself. Had been doing it long before the world ended, since the doctor she saw every few weeks asked her how things were going with Jimmy. Thinking about herself then, what she cared about, how much she cared about _Jimmy_ , makes the tears flow faster. She stands on the porch hugging herself and crying silently, silently but for a hiccup now and then, a swiftly taken breath.

“Didn't mean what I said. About your dad.”

Beth jumps, looking towards Daryl in the dark. She'd forgotten he was even there.

“W-what?” she asks, blinking rapidly and clearing her throat.

“Just... he don't seem too bad,” Daryl says. “Don't need to cry about it.”

“I-, oh,” Beth says. “No, that's not why... I wasn't crying cause of that. It's... you're right about him.” Beth sniffs, locks her eyes on the bobbing, burning cigarette. “I don't think I believe in anything anymore.”

The flickering embers jump as Daryl takes the smoke from his lips, exhales before pulling it back in, the meager light making his hollowed cheeks look gaunt and ghostly.

“Daddy lied to me. Maggie did too, but that's nothing new. But I didn't think Daddy was like that. He never liked to talk about drinking or growing up or anything like that, but he never lied to me about it. Never looked me in the eyes and said it never happened.” She snorts softly. “Now my own... my mama tried to kill me and I didn't even know she wasn't buried. Daddy said she was. He _told_ me.”

“He was trying to protect you. Probably. Make you feel better.” Daryl shuffles his feet. Beth almost thinks he's uncomfortable. “My dad never lied to me,” he says flatly. “Told me how fucked the world was before I even knew what he was saying. He'd be goddamn smug right now, the bastard was still alive to see how it is.” Daryl is quiet for a few moments, quiet but for his foot tapping restlessly. “What're you crying 'bout, then?” he asks.

He sounds angry. Beth flushes deeply, hugging herself tighter and looking away. “It doesn't matter,” she mumbles. “I ain't worth worrying over.”

“Ain't worried,” he mutters. He blows out a cloud of smoke without removing the cigarette, making the butt flare like a bonfire.

Beth shakes her head. “I'm just tired.”

“Got pills for that,” Daryl says. Beth looks up at him in surprise, but she can't see the cigarette; he's turned away. “Ain't mine. My brother left 'em. Ain't nothing your daddy'll have, though. Put you out like a light.”

“That isn't...” Beth trails off, watches as Daryl turns back to face her.

“What's the fucking problem then?”

She swallows, her tongue suddenly too big for her mouth. She can't tell him. He'd die of mortification, or she would, and Maggie'd come out here the next morning and find them both expired on the porch.

But she's also tired, and sad, and it's too dark to read his face, and of every single person on this farm he's probably the only one who'd keep it to himself.

“I can't masturbate.”

She didn't realize earlier how loud the crickets are tonight. In the long silence after she speaks, she hears them more sharply than she thinks she ever has, like they've crawled through her ears and are singing from inside her head. She bites her lip and turns away and only just keeps herself from screaming at them to shut up.

“You...”

“It's always helped,” Beth says over him, her voice breaking on the last word. “I'm not... not horny or anything. I ain't about to drag Jimmy or... or someone into a closet or whatever you're thinking.” Beth sniffs, wiping her eyes. “I just... I always did it. At the end of the day. It cleared my head. And it was the only, the only time after the barn and everything that I didn't wanna...” Beth chokes, closing her eyes tight. “But now I'm sharing my room and if I do it Carol'll know and I can't do it if someone's right there. So I... I haven't been sleeping. And I'm thinking too much and I'm _tired_ and there ain't nowhere I can go without some f-, fricking person being there first.” Beth opens her eyes, glad the tears are still obscuring her vision because she thinks even the sight of Daryl's outline would kill her dead this moment. “And it ain't appropriate to tell you this and I'm _sorry_ but... ohh.” Beth moans, wiping her face angrily, wincing when the bandage on her wrist drags across her cheek. “I don't wanna kill myself anymore. I know that. But when it gets like this and I'm just _thinking_ so much I start to think... think maybe I don't know anything. That, that whatever promises I made myself or Maggie are just... just more lies.”

Beth swallows heavily, hugging herself again. She's nervous about his response, but she's amazed to realized she isn't embarrassed. Not like she knows she's supposed to be, talking about touching herself with a man twice her age, a man she's barely shared two words with before.

He doesn't seem to have words for her now. She can feel his eyes on her, feel his stare, and she feels a prickle of unease that maybe he won't be as tight lipped about this as she thought.

“You won't... won't tell anyone I said all that?”

“Nah,” he says, quiet. Almost gentle. She hears a noise like he's running his fingers through his hair. “There's the, the barn...”

Beth barks out a laugh. “I tried, you know. A few days ago I tried going in there and I know y'all cleaned it out, but... it still smells like...” Beth trails off, shaking her head. “I can't go there,” she says softly. “I just gotta deal with it. Everyone's giving stuff up, right? To make this work? So I'll just... I'll deal with it.”

Daryl grunts, and a glance his way tells her he's smoked his cigarette down to the filter. She hears the quiet impact of the butt on the porch, the sound of his boot grinding it into the floorboards.

She supposes he'll leave her alone, now that he doesn't have the pretense of smoking to keep him here. But he doesn't move. She sees his dim outline shift as he shoves his hands into his front pockets, foot still tapping though the cigarette is long since extinguished.

If Beth's mama were here she would'a raised such a ruckus, seeing someone disrespect her porch like that. Wouldn't have yelled, not necessarily; but she would have put her hands on her hips, looked between the blackened wood and Daryl's face, eyebrow raised till he began to squirm. She'd leave then, maybe, vanish back into the house; but at some point later she'd come out with rubber gloves and a bucket of soapy water, handing it to Daryl without a word. And he'd've cleaned it up, gotten right on his knees and done it, cause Beth never met anyone who could put off her mama when she was angry.

Beth stares at the porch at Daryl's feet and waits to feel that righteous indignation. She's allowing this man in her house—her home that she maintains with her own two hands, and for him to have the audacity to disrespect that...

It doesn't feel like disrespect, though. She doubts Daryl meant it that way, and even if he did...

Maybe Beth's family pride has dimmed, but she thinks of that black stain on the porch and doesn't feel much of anything.

“You can...”

Daryl's sudden words make Beth jump, eyes flying to where his should be. She can't tell if he's looking at her, but she thinks he is.

She waits for him to continue; realizes he wasn't just lingering on the porch because he didn't feel like leaving, but because he was working up to tell her something.

Daryl's tapping toes have stilled, and if she didn't know he was standing there Beth doesn't think she would even notice his presence. But she knows he's there, there in a way he hadn't been before, nervous energy crackling like static between them.

“I can... what?” Beth asks.

He barely makes any sound as he shifts on his feet; sucks on his teeth for a moment like he's jonesing for another cigarette. She's about to let him know about the stash Maggie keeps in a plastic bag in a drain-pipe out back—Daddy'd lose his head if he knew about it, and Maggie would too if she found out Beth gave them away, but something tells Beth that out of everyone Daryl deserves to have the simple pleasure of a cigarette—when he speaks again. His thoughts are strung out, almost incoherent, but he isn't mumbling. His voice is strong.

“My tent. I ain't... y'know I ain't moving in the house. Too many goddamn people.”

Beth's lips twitch despite her confusion. “Yeah. That's what I was saying.”

“Yeah.” She hears a soft wet noise, like he's licking his lips. “It's... ain't safe for you to go out on your own. M'fine, but another walker could come through and you don't... I don't trust many of you to stay safe in the dark, so if you're gonna do this–“

“Do what?” Beth interjects, brow furrowed. “Daryl, I don't even know what you're talking about.”

He shuts up, and even in his silence Beth can feel that his discomfort has doubled.

“I... can't sleep half the night anyway. Been walking the edge of the wood, checking for anything, so it wouldn't put me out or nothing–“

Beth can't help it; she laughs, a short harsh sound that cuts through the night and the absurdity of it all.

“There a point to this?”

“You can use it. My tent. To... take care of stuff.”

Beth blinks. She blinks again, peering harder into the dark, trying to make out the details of his face, trying to figure out if he actually said what she thinks he said or if she's losing her mind.

“You... you're telling me–“

“Don't gotta,” he interjects. “Just, ya know. An option.”

Beth bites her lip. Thinks about how many times she's stood at the front window or up in her bedroom and looked out at his tent, only a field away but so far from the drama and the expectations pressing in on her from all sides. She's only ever thought about it idly, how nice it must be for him to have a place so out of the way and all to himself. Wonders about the noise Maggie and Daddy and Jimmy would make if she dragged their old camping gear out of the attic and erected her own tent at the edge of the woods. It'd be damn stupid of her, she's always known that. Beth's never even gotten into a fist fight, and there she'd be, away from everyone who knows how to defend themselves. A sitting duck for anything (or anyone) wandering out of the woods.

But Daryl... Daryl can take care of himself. She could tell from the moment she first saw him riding up to the house on that ridiculous motorcycle: That there's a man who doesn't need anyone. Least not for self defense. No one said a word when he set himself up by the woods; not cause they don't care about him (although sometimes she wonders), but cause they know he's the last of them who's gonna get taken down by a stray walker. No one needs to keep him safe.

And he's offering to...

“I don't... I don't wanna impose...”

“Does everything I say go in one ear and out the other?” he snaps. “Told ya. Don't spend much time there anyway. Ain't no reason you can't use it.”

Beth shakes her head. “Maggie would never let me.”

Daryl snorts. “You really planning on telling her?”

Beth flushes, knowing it's true—sex has always been an uneasy topic between the sisters, ever since Beth'd found Maggie's birth control pills and chucked them in the pond. She'd been too young for anything beyond spaghetti weddings back then, so they never really talked it through; and when Beth got to the age where rumor was at least one girl in her grade got pregnant a year, Maggie'd tried to broach the topic. Boys (girls?). Sex. Where to knee a guy who got too fresh, that she don't owe her body to no one but there ain't nothing wrong with a bit of fun. She'd sat through a few minutes of Maggie's stumbling lecture before cutting in and telling her that she knows what she's doing, thank you very much; had a full semester of sex ed and everything. Got a 98 on the final test. Besides, the only boy she'd ever think about going with was Jimmy, and he wasn't planning on sex till marriage anyway, and ain't that what Beth should be doing too?

That was a year before she _did_ step out with Jimmy, before her therapist asked how things were going, before the doctor tentatively suggested that just cause she didn't feel ready for sex with Jimmy didn't mean she had to ignore what her body was telling her. How uneasy she began to feel watching sex scenes in movies. The moments when she realized she had spent the last twenty minutes trying to work herself against the seam of her jeans in the middle of physics class.

If she's mad at Maggie for anything, it's that. For not telling her about it. Boys or nothing is what Maggie always gave her. Never bothered to tell Beth about the kind of sex she didn't need no one's help for.

Beth realizes that she's been standing in silence since Daryl asked his question, that the moment is stretching into uncomfortable territory. She can sense his nerves fluttering again and hers are fluttering too but she thinks about what it would feel like to get herself off again, even just once, and for a second that possibility consumes everything. Thinking about this oppressive cloud around her dissipating, the lead removed from her stomach, the scar scraped from her wrist and the dead put to rest in the earth.

She knows one orgasm doesn't have that power; a hundred wouldn't either. But she thinks about the blessed quiet of chasing that high and it brings tears to her eyes.

“Thank you,” she says. Daryl jumps a little when she speaks. She has a feeling he wasn't expecting that, but right now she doesn't give a damn what anyone expects. Again. That strange calm. “We'd have to work out a plan, right? Like you said, I can't get all the way out there in the dark on my own–“

“No,” Daryl says, seeming to have regathered his wits. “I can, uh. Meet you out here. When everyone's asleep. Take you over there, give you some time then walk you back.” He shifts, and she senses that his discomfort has come back. “I know... girls take a while–“

“I don't need more than an hour,” Beth interrupts. “Probably less. We can have a signal to let you know when I'm done. A lantern or something.”

“Don't want light where someone outside could see it,” Daryl says. It doesn't hit her until later that he isn't necessarily referencing walkers. “Could just... give you the hour. Then come and walk you back.”

“That'd work,” Beth says. “And this'd be... every night?”

“I don't know how horny you are. Fuck.”

Beth surprises herself. She smiles.

“We'll see how it goes. Then decide.”

“Yeah. Fine.”

“Ok then.”

The smudged outline of Daryl's head jerks in a nod, and Beth feels absurdly like they should shake hands to seal the deal. Spit into their palms or something. But before she can make the move to do so Daryl is rolling his shoulders and leaving her; stepping silently down the stairs of the porch. Once he's more than a few feet away she can't even tell he's there.

“Tomorrow night then?” Beth asks.

Nothing answers her, and for a moment she wonders if the night really has swallowed him up; that he's stepped off the porch into another world where a gray veil hangs between him and her. But then light from somewhere sparks off of him; probably his crossbow, judging by the height. She still can't find his outline but she keeps her eyes on that spark, lingering as an afterimage.

“Yeah,” he grunts. “I'll be here.”

“Good,” Beth says. She knows he can't see it, but she smiles anyway. “Thank you, Daryl.”

He grunts again, and his crossbow sparks one more time as he turns and walks fully into the maw of the night.

It takes Beth a few moments to realize that she's tired now. Not tired like she always is, but tired like she might actually be able to get some sleep.

 _Need my energy for tomorrow night_.

She heads back into the house, maneuvering easily through the dark and up the stairs until she reaches her bedroom. Closes the door as quietly as she can, tugs off her sweatshirt, crawls tentatively into bed, trying her best not to jostle the mattress. Carol snorts in her sleep, but otherwise doesn't stir. Beth settles against her pillow, closing her eyes with a sigh.

A voice inside her that sounds very much like Maggie is shouting for her attention, but Beth pushes it away. Pushes everything away save the sound of her own breathing, the thump of her heart against her hand where it lies curled against her chest.

She thinks too much. About everything. And damn that voice inside her, she isn't gonna do the same with this. She barely knows Daryl from Adam, but he offered her a favor. She accepted. She'll thank him for it somehow.

 _And how you gonna do_ that _, Miss Bethany Greene?_

“Shut up,” Beth mutters, pulling the covers over her head and falling, at last, to sleep.

 


	2. Open Coffins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The next day, the deal Beth made with Daryl feels like a dream. Reality, of course, finds a not so pleasant way of intervening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HUGE thank you to Abby for reading the first version of this and supporting my decision to revise it.
> 
>  ***WARNING*** : There is a lot of introspection about Beth's suicide attempt in this chapter, as well as references to cutting and some images that might be disturbing. Please be careful <3

Beth wakes up groggy like she used to on Saturday mornings after a particularly stressful week of school. She has the vague feeling that she'd had some sort of dream last night, one that requires her attention. The thought flits quickly away though; she can hear Carol moving around behind her, the _snick_ of a zipper as she does up her jeans. Beth can tell by the light bouncing off her closet door that it's at least an hour after dawn. Beth sighs. She slept in.

There's so much to do, so many people to navigate; stumbling down the stairs and apologizing to Patricia for sleeping late, helping her fire up the stovetop and start as many eggs going as they have pans. Breakfast is little more than that, but Mr. Grimes's group is thankful almost to the point of fawning. There's a few minutes when they're all stuffed into the living room and dining room and kitchen, wolfing down their eggs before scattering; Lori and Beth back to the kitchen with Patricia to clean up after breakfast, the rest of them wherever the heck they're going. Beth didn't miss the way Maggie sat herself next to Glenn and not herself or Daddy when she grabbed her plate, nor did she miss the way Glenn sprang up as soon as Maggie stood, putting down his plate and following her out the door even though he'd only eaten half of his meal. Beth had caught her father's eye when the screen door banged shut; Daddy let out a long-suffering sigh and Beth giggled, feeling oddly light, oddly hopeful this morning.

Beth stays in the house doing various chores and doesn't get a chance to step outside until the sun is high in the sky. She breathes in deeply when she steps onto the porch, thankful for the fresh air and the smell of nature and daylight. She pauses for a moment and looks out at what she sees. Mr. Grimes and Mr. Walsh are pointedly not looking at each other even as they pour over the same map, Andrea standing by with her arms across her chest, seeming unimpressed with both of them. T-Dog has taken charge of Carl for the moment; is talking to him animatedly as he works on the RV's engine, Carl watching his hands move with rapt eyes. Beth knows from eavesdropping and observation that Dale'd been the expert on the RV, Glenn his apprentice; but T-Dog must have some mechanical experience too. He doesn't look lost at all navigating the pieces of machinery.

Beth's about to step down, head over to the chicken coop to see if they'll have any eggs to replace what everyone ate this morning, but as she looks down to grab hold of the bannister her eyes catch on a blemish on the porch and her heart stops.

Black, ashy, burned into the wood. The cigarette itself is gone, likely taken by the wind or picked up by someone before Beth came out, but no one's bothered to scrub the mark away. It's entirely possible that no one's even noticed it.

Beth jerks her head up and Daryl's there. Not near her, not at all, but in her line of sight, sitting on the ground apart from the others and doing something with his crossbow; cleaning it or something, Beth wouldn't know.

Seeing him in daylight shocks Beth in a way she can't define. She's seen him before. Plenty of times. Nothing about him looks different than any other day; in fact, she's wouldn't be surprised if he's wearing exactly what he was yesterday. She didn't take much notice of his clothing the day before so she can't be sure, and most of his clothing looks like the rest of it anyway, but she wouldn't be surprised. She couldn't see what he was wearing in the dark at all. He could have been wearing nothing and she wouldn't have known.

He's absorbed in his task, utterly unaware of her, but she darts her eyes away from him all the same, not wanting to be caught looking; hurries down the steps and towards the coop, not even remembering until she's halfway there that she forgot to grab the basket from the corner of the porch. She doubles back and fetches it, and when she picks it up she realizes her hands are shaking. She grips the handle as tightly as she can, grips it till she's white knuckled and her palms begin to sting. Doesn't look at the mark on the porch. Doesn't look Daryl's way. Keeps her head down as she walks back across the yard, legs stiff and jerky.

“Beth! Hey, can you come here a minute?”

Beth freezes at the sound of her name, turning to see Mr. Grimes glancing up at her, a pleasant if strained smile on his face. Beth returns the expression as neutrally as she can, pivoting from her path and walking his way. She doesn't feel composed enough to be confident in speaking to anyone at the moment, but at least this conversation will keep Daryl to her back.

“Morning,” Beth says softly. Mr. Grimes nods in reply but Mr. Walsh ignores her, squinting down at the map like he suspects it's getting ready to punch him in the face.

Andrea isn't with them anymore; Beth glances away for a moment and sees her on her way over to Carl and T-Dog by the RV. Beth knows Maggie told Andrea to stay away from her, but Beth still wants to talk to her. Thank her for trusting Beth to come to the right decision on her own.

 _Another time_ , Beth thinks, turning back to Mr. Grimes and Mr. Walsh and the strained silence between them.

Beth likes Mr. Grimes. Part of it might be the echoes of her father's judgement, which, as she told Daryl the night before, she doesn't have complete confidence in anymore; but she also thinks she isn't so bad at reading people herself. He's a very earnest man, she thinks; thinks a lot on what's right and what's wrong, and does his best to stay on the good side of that. Beth can respect that, and sees how it would have made him a good cop in the old world.

Mr. Walsh she isn't so sure about. She doesn't think anyone is, but if that lack of confidence affects him, he does his very best not to show it. She's wondered about him ever since he came home and left Otis behind. She doesn't doubt his conviction to keep the people around him safe, but it's a sharper impulse than Mr. Grimes's; she can't imagine anyone changing Mr. Walsh's mind about something once he's decided his stance on it. He's like a bulldog with a bone, that way, and the farther he and Mr. Grimes grow from each other, the less she trusts him to make decisions that are right for everyone.

And there was the barn. How much he needed to be right, how little he cared who he hurt in the process. Daddy was the one who locked their loved ones away, but Mr. Walsh was the one who made them monsters.

In any case, Mr. Walsh still hasn't acknowledged her presence, and Mr. Grimes is doing his best to smile at her, despite the fatigue around his eyes. Beth supposes she isn't the only one not getting enough sleep.

“What do you need?” she asks, linking her hands in front of her, pulling her shoulders in.

“I was gonna ask your dad, but since you're here... we're trying to figure out places to go that might not have been looted yet. We've been lucky so far,” Beth sees Mr. Walsh's mouth tighten, but he doesn't say a word, “but if there's a stockpile of weapons or medicine somewhere, I wanna find it before someone else does.” Mr. Grimes looks back down at the map. Now that she's closer, Beth can see pencil markings on it—a circle around the farm and the town center, several homesteads close to the main roads crossed out. “If you know any houses or businesses that might be out of the way, might not have been picked through yet...”

Beth looks at the map, her eyes drawn to the path she took to school everyday, the drive down the road where she knows Jimmy's house stands burnt. There's a cross over that spot too.

Beth swallows. “What if there are people there? If they're isolated like us, maybe they made it too–“

“Then they'll have plenty of what we need,” Mr. Walsh snaps. He doesn't look up from the map, even with Beth's and Mr. Grimes's gazes on him. Beth glances at Mr. Grimes, sees his jaw square and clenched.

“If they're amenable, we'll ask them to join us,” Mr. Grimes says. “If they want to stick to themselves, well, we can work out trades or something.” Mr. Grimes turns very pointedly towards her, ducking his head to meet her eyes. “Any group that goes out will have Maggie or Jimmy in it. A familiar face,” he says softly. “We aren't planning on looting anyone. But if you know any places that might've been abandoned... it'd be good to know.”

Beth nods, and when Mr. Grimes moves back from the map she steps into his space, leaning over it and trying to ignore how close Mr. Walsh is, the tension running up and down his curved spine. She glances at Mr. Grimes, then picks up his pencil, hovering over the paper before bending over and adding a few circles of her own.

“There's a lot of long drives around here that aren't on the map,” she says. She senses Mr. Grimes looking over her shoulder, standing a respectful distance away. “My... my friend May lived out here. I saw her brothers at the game shop in town a lot, they might have some hunting supplies. Their house might. Mrs. Shepherd had hip problems, so you might find some painkillers. Chet Baker's in the marines; I dunno if he was on leave when this all started, but could be military stuff there. Mrs. O'Flattery sold jars of preserves at the fair each summer. Her son was going through chemo, what she made went towards the hospital bills. Daddy tried to offer her money but she wouldn't take it...”

Beth falls silent, making circles, circles, names and faces clamoring in her head with each one. Friends from school, acquaintances, people she didn't care about one way or another but in a town this small you knew where everyone lived; knew whose parents were unwell and whose daughter'd gotten knocked up and what kind of flowers each elderly person liked best, what to bring to their funeral or leave in their mailbox on their birthday. Beth can't remember how many cobblers she and her mama made over the years, driving together to drop them off where someone'd just moved in or fallen sick or gotten married or lost someone...

Beth stayed in the car for those. She never knew what to do the few times she went to the stoop. Stood behind her mama while someone in black opened the door, stared at the pie with blank eyes, or burst into tears, or yelled at them to get the hell away and mind their own business. Mama left the cobbler no matter what, and no piece of crockery ever went unreturned, showing up empty and clean on the Greene family's doorstep, a note of thanks taped to the inside. Mama made a scrapbook of those, put it in the attic; told Beth if she ever started feeling too good for other people, too prideful, to open that book. Read the letters, every last one. Remind herself how much everyone needs each other, kin or not, and how much something as simple as homemade cobbler and a bit of kind thought can do.

Beth blinks and looks up; turns her head to Mr. Grimes's worried eyes, sees even Mr. Walsh looking concerned. She swallows and straightens up, gripping the pencil with stiff fingers.

“I'd... you want me to show you where everything is, write what you might find?”

“That's alright, Beth,” Mr. Grimes says, taking the pencil from her gently, putting a warm palm on her shoulder. “That's a good start. You're a lot of help.”

“Any houses you want anything from? If they're... if the people ain't there anymore?”

Both Beth and Mr. Grimes look at Mr. Walsh like he's grown a second head, but his expression doesn't falter, and Beth sees for the first time the man he must have been, for Lori and Mr. Grimes to give their love to him.

“No. No, it's ok,” Beth says. “You just... get what we need.” She forces a smile, stepping away from Mr. Grimes's touch, turned towards the chicken coop. “Let me know if I can help with anything else, ok?”

“Of course, Beth,” Mr. Grimes says. “Thank you.”

Beth nods and continues on her way; steps slow, measured, purposeful.

She feels eyes on her the whole way. Mr. Grimes, yes. Mr. Walsh too maybe. But she glances towards the house and sees Daddy on the porch, Lori beside him. They don't even have the grace to turn their gazes from her when they see her noticing them.

Watching her like she has a suicide vest on.

Is any minute gonna blow herself to smithereens.

She crumples as soon as she enters the door around the corner; breaks her fall with the basket as she stumbles to her knees, heaving breaths running through her, eyes squeezing shut and lips pressed into a thin line. It doesn't help; a sob bursts through her sealed mouth, cracking her jaw with its violence and pulling another cry from her lips as she pushes a hand against the side of her face. The joints pulse under her fingers as she curls in on her stomach, other hand on her mouth, desperately reeling it in, pulling her back inside herself.

It takes several minutes for Beth to calm down. She takes her hand from her mouth when she thinks she can trust herself to be quiet, breathing in and out through pursed lips, blinking harshly and then wiping at her eyes with angry fingers.

“Stupid little girl,” she mutters. “Stupid, stupid...”

She swallows hard. Drags in a ragged breath and stands, glad at least that though they followed her with their eyes, no one came looking for her. She'll have to get back in the house; put cool water over her eyes until the redness and swelling goes down. It's always so obvious when she cries.

The bandage on her wrist is itching something fierce but she leaves it alone; presses it against her jeans as she goes about collecting what eggs are to be found. There are some; not enough for another breakfast like today. They'll have to start sharing eggs soon. Supplementing it with oatmeal or something. Maybe Mr. Grimes'll bring back more chickens, find enough to feed all of them.

She should tell him that. Mention it, that they don't just need weapons and medicine. He isn't used to tending animals; wouldn't know how valuable a chicken or a goat would be. She should tell him...

Beth feels a wave of dizziness flow across her and lifts her hand instinctively, catching herself on one of the shelves. Her bandaged wrist bangs against the edge of the wood and though it doesn't hurt she flinches violently; looks at the strip of cloth so pristine it almost glows in the dim.

“Beth?”

Beth's head jerks up and sees Maggie standing in the doorway. Glenn is hovering behind her right shoulder; far enough away to be respectful, but still there, caught by Maggie's tether. It makes Beth think of Jimmy, and she wonders where he is. She hasn't seen him this morning. Hasn't shared more than a few words at a time the past few days either. Glenn looks away when he realizes that Beth can see him, shuffling to the side and leaving Beth at Maggie's mercy.

Beth feels her sister's eyes burning into her, at different points on her body; her puffy face and her reddened eyes and her white knuckles where they grip the shelf, the fingers of her other hand—the basket they hold, barely holding on.

Beth pulls the handle more firmly into her grip. She straightens and takes her hand off the shelf and presses the bandages again against her jeans.

“Rick said–”

“Should get these inside. Get them chilled,” Beth says, in a voice that sounds foreign to her ears simply because it's so normal. She waits a beat, not meeting Maggie's eyes. “Can I go?”

Her sister doesn't move. Doesn't say a thing. But the door is wide enough, and Beth small enough, that she can push her way through with little effort. Ignores Glenn stepping away from her like she's contagious, ignores Maggie's aborted efforts to reach for her.

She makes the mistake of sweeping her eyes across the yard instead of watching her feet. Just one sweep. Out of habit, from a time when the sight of land could calm her, give her some measure of hope.

Her eyes land on Daryl instead. Still doing what he's doing to his crossbow, head bent low, focused on his task. He doesn't look up once, but she can feel his awareness seeping into her pores as deeply as she feels everyone else's.

She ducks her head and makes it to the house. Moves past Daddy and Lori, holds her breath so it doesn't shudder; drops the eggs in the kitchen, and heads straight upstairs without meeting another soul.

* * *

Beth leaves her hand on the doorknob of the closed bathroom door for several minutes, struck in the moment of the door clicking shut just how odd the bandage on her wrist looks against her tanned skin. No one in their right mind would call her tan, but she knows she is; has fiddled with the edge of the bandage and seen a line of skin tones, the yellow-pink of her arm changing abruptly to a pasty pale thirsting for the sun.

She finally disengages from the door. Digs into the cabinet beneath the sink and sits herself on the closed toilet lid, turning her wrist towards the sun streaming in from above the Roman blinds. She could turn the light on to see better, but Daryl's words from the night before echo in her head and she decides she doesn't need it. No matter it isn't night; no matter a little electric light would do nothing to divert a walker from its path with the sun at its peak. But still. It feels right to do this under natural illumination. Whatever this is.

She can't see the puckered line through the bandage, but she can feel it. Runs her fingers across it. Is surprised by how thin it is, how short. It's smaller than she remembers. In her memory the wound, the stitches are monstrous, slicing her arm to the bone—but it really isn't much. Isn't much at all.

She knew even as she was doing it that she was doing it wrong; that you're supposed to slice down the arm, not across it, opening the veins like she long ago used scalpels to dissect worms in biology class. In her head, she uses that as proof that she never meant to take her own life, not _really—_ that the drama of the moment, Lori breaking down the door and Maggie yelling and her own hysterical tears, had rendered the event larger than reality warranted. People cut themselves all the time; Beth had seen the lines on some of her friends' arms before they were hastily covered by sweaters or pulled down sleeves. That was all she was doing. This hidden scar—a few inches, really, barely anything—it amounts to a moment of panic. A moment of looking in the mirror and seeing her own dead face gazing back at her.

Breaking the mirror, cutting the skin; it's ancillary. It would have been more appropriate to gouge her eyes out. Cut them away so when she bled to death on the floor her family would never have to see the ghostly pallor settle across them, the unseeing, wanton animalness of a walker's gaze. Of her mama's gaze. Looking at her but not seeing. Not seeing her. Seeing something else. Something beyond meaning.

Beth pops open the bottle of moisturizer, the gentle odorless kind that Maggie bought when she got her first tattoo (which Daddy, of course, knows nothing about). Sits on the closed toilet for a time, rubbing the moisturizer up and down her arm, tracing the edge of the bandage. She wants to take it off. Wants to see the wound for herself, trace it with slippery fingers. Wonders if, if she didn't know what it was, what it meant, it might be beautiful. A work of art like a tattoo would be.

She wonders what Daddy would say about a tattoo now. She bets if she wanted to she could get one. Choose someone brave enough to sear the color into her skin. Find a tattoo parlor with a backup generator and ink that hasn't expired. She doubts places like that have been looted, save maybe the break rooms for stashes of food. Besides, there are other ways to mark your skin than with a tattoo needle. Those pen ink drawings she knows prisoners were into. Didn't need professional materials for that; just someone with a steady hand and the luck to escape an infection.

And then there's the easier way. A shard of glass, or a knife this time. Digging it into her skin and carving out patterns—the shape of a maple leaf or a ladybug or a teapot or... something. It wouldn't need to be deep. Not deep enough to need stitches. Just thin lines of blood trailing across her skin, cutting into them again when they've scabbed over to make sure the scarring is permanent. The mark on her wrist could be the beginning of something. A pencil maybe. An arrow.

Beth rubs at her forearm several more times before sucking in a sharp breath, closing the moisturizer and stowing it back beneath the sink. As she looks into the darkness of the cabinet she thinks about the darkness of the coop, of the porch. Of how terrified one kind of dark made her feel, and the other so brave.

Beth closes her eyes, opens them; closes the cabinet, gets to her feet. Someone will be calling for her soon. They panic when she's out of sight for too long, and she's lost track of time. Can't see the sun's position from this angle. Doesn't know if it's been minutes or hours.

It can't have been hours. Hours, when Maggie and Mr. Grimes looked at her with such concern. When whatever Mr. Walsh saw in her face scared him enough to make him _kind_. It hasn't been long. The door would be knocked down by now.

Beth doesn't look at herself in the mirror before exiting the bathroom. She might not have been trying to kill herself last time, but that doesn't mean she's gonna go around looking for an excuse to make it happen again.

 


	3. The Long Walk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first night of Daryl's offer begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so pleased and surprised by the enthusiastic response this fic has been getting. I've decided to focus on it solely for the foreseeable future because it's fun and I want to actually finish a multi-chapter thing, so hopefully I'll continue to update fairly quickly :)

Beth just manages to hold in an exasperated sigh when Carol moves again. It had been the longest stillness so far. Beth's been counting the time between Carol's movements by her own heartbeats so she doesn't take out her nervous energy moving about on the bed herself.

It's been a long day, a hot day, but Beth feels more awake than she did when she woke up this morning; electricity crackles in the air and across her skin, like the prelude to a thunderstorm. She feels ready to move, to run. She remembers the stories her mama told her of women dancing naked in fields, leaping through the grass like gazelles. She finds herself longing to divest herself of her clothes and her skin and follow that example, let her bones and musculature shimmer in the moonless night.

She squeezes her hands into fists, focuses stubbornly on the blood pumping past her ears. Pushes away thoughts of getting up now, Carol be damned. Pushes away the anxiety that when she does get up, no one will be there, and she'll be forced to weather this storm on her own. Pushes away the terror that he  _ will _ be there, prepared to help her do what she's about to do.

When she'd exited the bathroom and gone back outdoors no one asked any questions. As before she felt their attention on her, but this time at least they were kind enough to avert their eyes. She'd found Carol doing laundry and joined her silently and didn't speak more than a word or two the rest of the day.

She's glad, at least, that it's Carol in here and not someone like Maggie or Lori. Not someone who cares. Not someone who doesn't have the weight of her own tragedy, of the group's pity, pulling her down. Even though the woman's presence has kept Beth from taking care of herself, it isn't as smothering as it could be. After today, she feels like she should appreciate that more.

Still. She feels like she imagines a general might the night before going into battle, and doesn't that make her roll her eyes. She isn't about to go into battle. Isn't doing something brave. She's sneaking out in the dead of night so she can let herself feel something without those eyes on her. Sneaking out to feel something.

Beth swallows and glances over at Carol. The woman's eyes are closed, half-hidden by the pillow, her breathing even. Beth knows she should wait a little longer, wait for a deeper sleep to take hold, but—everything she's ever done in her life is wait. It's time for something else.

She stands just like she did the night before. Grabs her boots this time, and a towel; slips her sweatshirt over her head and holds the shoes and towel close to her chest as she hurries downstairs, skipping the stair that creaks and only releasing her breath when the screen door clicks shut behind her.

She stands there for several moments, catching her breath before looking around. It's just as dark as it was the night before, the suggestions of shapes looming in undulating outlines as her eyes struggle to adjust. She doesn't see Daryl anywhere but she knows that doesn't mean anything, not when she can barely see her own hand when she waves it in front of her face.

Looking around again—more out of instinct than for any purpose—she steps away from the door, places her boots on the porch and steps into them, tucking her pajama bottoms in so they don't get stained passing over the grass. When she's done she straightens. Runs her hands up and down her arms, cold even beneath the heavy sweatshirt, towel tight between them. Steps to the edge of the porch and looks around. The crickets are loud again tonight and she feels her heart fall into their natural rhythm.

“Daryl?” she calls softly, peering into the gloom. She grips the neck of her sweatshirt like she's holding a robe together, feels the back of her fingers cold against her throat. “Daryl, you there?”

“Jesus, house really is full of fucking dumb-asses.”

Beth gasps, slapping a hand across her mouth to keep the shriek in as she spins around, eyes darting wildly toward the back corner of the porch, the direction the voice had come from. For a few long seconds she sees nothing, nothing at all; and then a piece of the darkness breaks away from itself, swirling towards her in inky black until at last she can divine some sort of outline, its shape already somewhat familiar. The light glints off his crossbow again and she knows for sure.

“Don't  _ do _ that,” Beth hisses, stepping closer more out of an instinct to hide from the dark than for any other reason. Daryl doesn't budge, and now that she knows he's there she can feel his eyes on her, scorching. He must have been standing there this whole time and if he hadn't spoken she never would have known.

“You're the one wasn't paying attention,” Daryl says. “Could have a whole army out here and you'd'a just walked on by, huh?”

Beth scowls. She's already on edge from anticipation and the press of the darkness; it isn't hard to snap back at him.

“Thought that's why you're here. Heck knows I don't need you for anything  _ else _ .”

Beth regrets the words as soon as they leave her mouth. Implying Daryl's useless isn't what she set out to do, not at all, especially when the truth is the exact opposite. Around dusk she'd seen him making the trek from the woods to the house, a doe slung across his shoulders. Maggie had grinned at the sight, anticipating a dinner of fresh venison; and it  _ was  _ good, the bit that Beth choked down past the nausea that always seems to haunt her these days. Glenn and T-Dog went back for seconds.

Beth noticed Daryl scowling at that. He wasn't eating with them at the dining table; was picking bits of meat from his plate where he hovered in the doorway, as if he weren't sure of his welcome. Beth almost asked him to join them—she could understand him not doing good in crowds, but they wouldn't even have been there if it weren't for him. Sitting around a table, smiling, laughing, full on good food and company. There were some moments where Beth blinked and she almost saw her mama's face swing out from behind Patricia's hair, or Glenn laughed and it was like Shawn's ghost had sat down to eat with them...

She'd given up on eating shortly after that, sliding her leftovers onto Maggie's plate when she wasn't looking, going to wrap up what remained of the doe so they'd have some to save. She'd passed through the door Daryl lingered at when she took the platter back to the kitchen; met his eyes a moment, saw a spark of something different from his usual scowl, almost like approval. But then he looked away from her and she continued on and tried not to throw up as she wrapped the meat in plastic.

It had been a good dinner; Beth saw it on her Daddy's face, on Mr. Grimes's, on everyone's. Even bloated with food, they were lighter when they finished. Happier. Daryl did that for them.

_ All I've ever done is make people worry _ , Beth thinks, breaking what she imagines to be Daryl's gaze to look at the ground miles below in the dark.

“Sorry,” she says before he has a chance to say anything. If he planned on saying anything at all. “That was cruel, and I didn't–“

“You can take care of yourself; why we're here,” he mutters.

Beth looks up, confused, but she senses that he's moved away and she panics; lunges forward, fingers catching on his bare arm. He's hot to the touch, so much hotter than the night air, and she quickly moves her hand to the strap of his crossbow as he turns back towards her.

“We're still–“

“Where do you think I'm going?” Daryl snaps. “You wanna get your rocks off or not?”

Beth blushes heavily at his words, glad that it's far too dark for Daryl to notice. But the shock makes her strangely calm. She curls her fingers more tightly around the strap, knuckles brushing his bare arm. She feels him tense away from her touch but she decides to ignore it.

“Sorry,” she says again. “I'm a little jumpy, you know?” She forces a laugh. “Forget walkers, I'd probably kill myself tripping over a rock I didn't see coming.” She pauses. When he refuses to fill the silence, she continues. “You're right. I should have been paying more attention. I'll do better.”

Again he doesn't answer her, but she feels a prickling on the back of her neck that tells her he has his eyes on her. She wonders how much he  _ can _ see; whether he can sight her more clearly than she can him, or if he's using his other senses to know where she is. Regardless, she has no doubt that he's looking her in the eyes, and no matter what he can or can't see she does her best to make her expression as earnest as possible.

Finally Daryl snorts, shaking his head but not shaking her off. He tugs instead, moving to the side and making sure she follows. She keeps her grip on the strap strong, stepping closer so when he sways back to center she feels part of him brushing the front of her sweatshirt.

“You hold onto that. Don't want you getting lost. And keep up.”

Before she can say another word he's moving, trotting down the porch steps as Beth scrambles to follow, to find her footing on stairs that she can't see. But then there's solid ground beneath her feet again, and despite their height difference Beth's legs are long enough that she doesn’t have to rush to much to keep her grip on his crossbow.

“How do you know there's nothing out here?” she asks after a few minutes, voice hushed.

“I don't,” he says flatly, not breaking stride. She trots a little to come alongside him, glad she wore her sweatshirt so their bare arms aren't rubbing together. She glances back towards the house and it's the same sensation she felt looking out from the porch; she has the sense of some looming structure, an outline conjured more out of memory than anything her eyes can see—but otherwise there's nothing. Everyone is asleep and she's out here with Daryl Dixon.

“If you don't know then what's even the point of taking me?” she asks. “I can stumble through the dark same as you.”

“Ain't stumbling,” Daryl says. “And I don't know if there's anything  _ out here _ , but I'll know if we get close.” He knocks something blunt and hard against her shoulder, just enough for her to feel it. “Know how to take care of it too.”

_ His knife _ , she thinks. She didn't even know he had it out. Didn't think about bringing one herself.

_ Of course he has his knife out _ , Beth thinks, ducking her head and trying to make out the terrain in front of them.  _ It'd be stupid to be out here without one. You know that. And you know he'd know it. You would if you did any thinking at all. _

Beth pushes her thoughts away, tightening her hold on the crossbow and focusing on the slight stinging in her palm as the strap bites into her skin.

Just when she's about to ask how much farther they have to go she feels the grass beneath her feet give way to dirt and Daryl comes to a stop. She bounces against his arm at the sudden halt, blushing a little and putting some space between them. She doesn't let go of the strap until she feels him bending down, and she thinks she can see it now; the subtle sheen of nylon, a lump in the dark coming up to her chest.

Beth hears a zipper roll, the sound of shuffling as Daryl enters the tent on his knees.

Then, seconds of nothing. The crickets and the wind whispering through the grass and the trees but no sound from Daryl, and Beth feels a bolt of panic strike through her the moment before light flares and her vision comes back to life.

Daryl's head pops out of the tent and Beth feels her cheeks heat. She must look impossibly comical to him; clutching the towel to her chest like it'd be enough to ward off walkers, eyes wide as saucers, arms trembling in her sudden fright. His face remains expressionless, though, and he stays still, waiting for something. Beth realizes she's been holding her breath and she releases a gush of air, feeling her shoulders drop. Swallowing, she goes to her knees and shuffles inside.

The tent isn't nearly tall enough for either of them to stand in, and it isn't necessarily spacious, but Beth can tell Daryl is comfortable here; a sleeping bag takes up the majority of the space, a rolled pack of clothing sitting at its head like a pillow. There's a small stack of books, some of which Beth recognizes as coming from the house. Next to it is a gas-lamp turned as low as it will go and a large backpack, tidily zipped but bulging. Beth has no doubt that Daryl has enough in that pack to keep him alive for days; all he'd need would be to roll the sleeping bag around the clothes, strap it to the pack, grab it and go. Beth wonders why she hasn't seen anyone else with a bag like this. It makes sense, no matter how safe they feel.

Beth hears a sound behind herself and she whirls around. She didn't notice when she entered the tent that Daryl slipped out moments later. He's crouched at the entrance of the tent, one hand braced on the vinyl floor but the rest of him outside, muscles humming a little, clearly ready to go. Beth feels another spike of panic— _ stay with me! _ she wants to beg him, no matter how pitiful, no matter how inappropriate it is to what she's here to do—but something in his eyes, settled heavily on her face, calms her down. His regard feels like a pile of blankets on her chest, reassuring and warm, no matter how chilly his expression actually is. Beth breathes in deeply and falls to her butt on the sleeping bag, careful to keep her boots on the floor of the tent.

“So...” Beth says, feeling her cheeks heating up again and realizing with chagrin that even in the low lamplight Daryl is probably able to see it. But he looks just as uncomfortable as she does, crouching at the mouth of the tent, something keeping him here despite his obvious desire to flee. His eyes have moved off her face and he's now scowling at her feet, jaw working restlessly.

“I brought a towel,” Beth says into the silence, and that  _ does _ make Daryl look at her and lord if she weren't blushing before she is now. She shifts under his gaze, shrugging her shoulders uncomfortably. “I mean, obviously, you can see it, but... I thought, you know, I don't wanna get your stuff, um, dirty. Or wet or whatever. So you don't need to worry about that.”

Daryl grunts and Beth has no idea what it means, so she keeps going. “I... I really appreciate that you're doing this, Daryl. I really do. And if there's anything I can do for you... I know we don't know each other well but maybe–“

“Don't gotta do nothing,” Daryl grunts. He pauses, then says, “Well, maybe next time I bring a doe back, make sure you lot don't eat the whole fucking thing in one go. Could'a lasted a fucking week on that.”

Beth doesn't expect to, but she giggles; Daryl's mouth might even twitch. The awkwardness isn't completely gone, but it's dissipated somewhat, and Beth is glad of it.

“Will do,” she says. “Seemed silly to me too, eating that whole thing like you weren't the one that did all the work.”

“Don't care about that,” Daryl says gruffly. “Just ain't smart. Don't know when I'll get another one.”

“Thank you for getting this one, though,” Beth says softly. “It made everyone really happy. It was good to see that.”

Daryl opens his mouth like he's about to say something, but lets it fall closed before he does. He looks down and clears his throat, rocking back on his knuckles.

“I'll be back in an hour, a'right?” He nods towards the backpack. “There's a watch in the front pocket. It's a piece of shit; don't have an alarm but better'n nothing.”

“What about you?” Beth asks. “How will you know–“

“I know how long an hour is,” he says flatly. He pauses, still not looking at her. “Just... make sure you're fucking decent by then, a'right?”

Beth blushes hotly, nodding emphatically. “Yes. Of course.”

“Good,” Daryl grunts. He jerks his chin again, this time towards the lamp. “Don't turn that up anymore or it'll get through the fabric. And...” He pauses, then reaches behind himself, fiddles with something and tosses her what he finds.

She catches it clumsily and looks down and sees a hunting knife in a plain leather sheath. It isn't the big one she's seen bumping against his thigh, but it's still larger than any knife she's held in her life. Even in the kitchen she stuck with the carrot chopper.

“Keep that with you.  _ Always _ , not just out here.”

“Daddy'd never let me carry–“

“The strap comes off and you can stick it in your boot. He don't need to know. 'S fucking dumb to walk around without a weapon.”

Beth flushes, but she doesn't think he's chastising her. At least not her in particular.

“Ok,” she says softly. “Thank you.”

Daryl grunts, and meets her eyes. She's held by what she sees there; dark cobalt in the low light, slim and dangerous but not mean. She crooks one corner of her mouth and he scowls harder, snorting and pushing himself away from the tent.

“Remember. An hour,” he says, standing up. “Anything comes 'round ain't me, stab it in the head.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Dixon.”

Daryl snorts and zips the tent back up. She doesn't hear him walking away but she still knows he's gone.

And for the first time in days, Beth finds herself utterly alone.


	4. Under The Skin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beth has her first night of time alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating change! :D
> 
> Thank you to all the lovelies reading and reviewing this story, but a SPECIAL thank you to Abby for reading it first. Check out [her stuff](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Abelina/pseuds/Abelina). It's amazing.

For several minutes after Daryl leaves Beth doesn't do much of anything. Looks around the tent, noting pieces of duct tape stuck carefully over what must have been tears in the fabric. Beth remembers what Daryl said about the windows at night, how the house needs to be light-proof. It would be a shame during the day, plunging them all into preternatural darkness, but it isn't like anyone spends much time in the house anyway, except maybe the kitchen and they can keep the lights off there at night easily. Maybe Daryl would know how to build something like shutters; not boards nailed across the windows like her daddy did with the barn, but something on a hinge.

She wonders if one of the others would know how to make something like that too. T-Dog, maybe, if his knowledge of the RV is any indication of his knowledge of putting things together. She can't imagine anyone else making something with their hands. Following a manual, maybe, but not _making_ something. She thinks that maybe Daryl could build his way out of anything.

She sets her towel down, shucks off her shoes, and crawls across the sleeping bag to look at the books more carefully. They're paperbacks, all of them battered, even the ones that came from the house. Beth wonders if Daryl felt more comfortable nabbing those, like they wouldn't be missed. She doesn't think he stole them, though; sitting in the open like this, even in his secluded tent, they remind her of the pile of library books she kept on her desk when places like libraries meant something. She hasn't read any of these books before, although she did read _Murder on the Orient Express_ in freshman year; she recognizes the author's name on one of the cracked spines.

They all look like detective stories, and thinking on what she knows about Daryl, that seems about right; tracking through the woods, seeing and thinking things others don't, like his comments on the windows. She wonders if he tries to solve the murders in the stories before the detectives do, or if he loses himself in the narrative, in the prose. Maybe in the minds of those enigmatic investigators out for justice. She doesn't know if justice matters to him the way it would to Mr. Grimes or Mr. Walsh, but she doesn't think he'd dismiss the idea. He looked for Sophia, after all, and he's helping her...

She jerks back from his books, cheeks burning. He'd taken time out of his night to bring her here, is lending her his space for little more than her peace of mind, and here she is digging through his things, invading his privacy even further.

Besides. She only has an hour. She's wasting time.

Shaking her head, Beth reaches for the small pocket on the backpack that Daryl had indicated. Inside it, indeed, she finds a battered digital watch. It looks like the kind of thing he might have picked up at a dime store, or even from the forgotten back of a drawer after this all started. She wonders what he needs it for, if he can tell time so well, but doesn't dwell on it. Looks at the time and counts fifteen minutes backwards in her head, just to be safe, then adds an hour to that. She knows how long she has now.

Beth places the watch on the tent floor by the oil lamp, then turns to the bedding. She blushes a little, although she doesn't know why. The sleeping bag is zipped shut; it isn't like she's gonna be sharing his sheets. And she has the towel; knows from experience to double it up, double it again and lay it down where she expects her hips to go. She considers taking her panties and pajama bottoms off, but decides not to; too much to navigate if something goes wrong, and, again, she feels embarrassed at the thought of disrobing in Daryl's tent.

She moves tentatively, crab walking until she's hovering over the bedding, settling herself slowly. She reaches down to adjust the towel, make sure it's secure beneath her butt. Rolls her neck against the unfamiliar pillow, working out a groove that will keep her somewhat comfortable. She breathes out, wishing she'd brought a sheet to lay over herself too. Her bedroom door doesn't lock, and she's never done this on top of the sheets; always made sure she was prepared to relax and shut off her phone and feign sleeping if one of her family members popped their head in. There's nothing to hide under here, not unless Daryl has something in his pack, and she has no plans of going through that. No. This will have to do.

Beth takes a deep breath, puts the hand with the bandaged wrist over her sweatshirt just beneath her breasts, feels her heart fluttering. Not pounding yet, but going quick, quick like it did when Jimmy first kissed her, all hesitant lips and unsure hands.

She doesn't feel any spike of arousal at that memory, or any memories of Jimmy. It's not like they've ever gotten very far anyway. He touched her breast through her shirt and bra when they were kissing under the bleachers at homecoming, but was too nervous to keep going; took his hand and mouth away as she bit back protests— _it isn't sex if you just_ touch _me, you aren't being bad or breaking any vows and I want you to, want to know what it feels like, see if you can make me feel what I make myself feel, and more than that,_ more _, please_ —and the next week the news reports started and neither of them was in much of a mood for touching then.

Not Jimmy then. She had some ebooks on her phone, pages bookmarked, but her phone's been out of power for months. No use charging it when there's no one to talk to, when it holds a contacts list that she can't help thinking of as a record of the dead. But she can make herself come without that. She's done it before. It takes a little longer, but she can, and it's been so long since she last took care of herself that she suspects it will take little more than a touch for her body to start crying for it.

Beth looks at the ceiling of the tent, the shadows thrown there by the flickering lamp, and eases her right hand to the waistband of her sleep pants. Feels the skin of her lower stomach just beneath it, goosebumps rising at her own soft touch. She takes hold of the neat bow on her pants and tugs it loose; feels the fabric fall slack across her hips, feels her heartbeat speed up beneath her other palm.

She moves her gaze, shuffling around on the makeshift pillow until she's supported enough to look down at herself, see her hand lying innocently across her lower stomach. She isn't used to watching herself but she wants to watch herself now, at least the start of it; might give her a stronger sense of reality, make her feel less like she's going to open her eyes any moment and find herself back in her bedroom, Carol snoring away.

She blinks and she's still in the tent. Blinks again and pushes her sweatshirt up a little, exposing a slip of skin and her sharp hipbones. Blinks and slides her hand slowly past the waistband, fingers disappearing into the darkness below.

She feels the thicket of her pubic hair first and bites her lip. She never cared much about _down there_ before, except when she trimmed herself to look decent in a swimsuit, but when she started touching herself she also started to shave. She had a vague sense that men supposedly liked that; saw the plethora of smooth bare skin in the few videos she watched. But she didn't do it to feel desirable or wanton like a woman in a video. She just liked how it felt; how it was so much easier to tell when she was wet, her slick pooling between her labia when she lay in bed or dripping straight into her panties when her mind wandered during the day. How delicate she felt beneath her own fingers, how once she got going it was hard to tell where her “insides” ended and her outsides began. How she could stroke herself in the come-down afterwards, slide the proof of her orgasm across her skin like lotion.

She hasn't taken a razor to any part of her body since all this began; first in the grief over her mother and brother, and then necessity, when water became too precious to spend time in the shower shaving. She knows the other women are the same; sees their hairy legs and the sweat dripping down the strands of their underarms.

Even if they had the luxury of unlimited water, she doesn't think they'd do it, at least not often. There's too much else to worry about, so few mirrors left for personal vanity, and maybe also beneath it a defiance. Beth is old enough, knows enough to know that it's always been a man's world, knows that that didn't change even with the end of civilization.

But Beth remembers the first time she saw Andrea striding across the yard with her hat and shorts and toned legs thick with hair, a rifle balanced against her collarbone and a glint in her eye that dared anyone to comment on it, any of what she is now. Beth saw that. As much as she misses her old life—as much as she appreciates feeling pretty when she can—she wants to _be_ that.

It's still strange, finding her mons wild and unshaved, and she takes a few moments to card her fingers through the hair, re-acclimate herself to the crinkly texture, the scratch of it under her palm. She hasn't ventured far enough yet to find any wetness, but she still shifts, opening her legs farther and smiling a little at the refreshing feeling of cool air slipping between her spread lips. Her hand looks so delicate pressing as it is against the front of her pants, her wrist and arm so slim where they climb up the rest of her body. She's barely touched herself yet and she already feels the hairs on her arms rising, a spiral of anticipation building in her belly, and she moves just a bit farther...

She drops her head back on the pillow when her finger brushes her clit, mouth open and eyes wide. She withdraws, fingers trembling, then ventures forward more slowly. Feels the pressing nerve coiling up beneath the hood, the cusp of skin, and then...

Beth breathes out slowly as she applies touch gentle as surgery; pressing the pad of her finger against different parts of her clit, feeling the frisson of sensation shoot through her, different with each contact. She finds where it's strongest, down on the right side with the hood pulled back just a touch; begins to move her fingers in feather light strokes, eyes closed and lip caught between her teeth as her hips start to shift of their own accord, rolling in an attempt to release some of the tension in her muscles. She reaches back farther, smiles at the wet she finds pooling around her entrance; drags the slick forward until her finger moves across her clit like a dancer on ice.

She isn't thinking of anything in particular yet; is hardly thinking about orgasming when it comes down to it. She's _feeling_ ; looking at the ceiling of the tent as her hand explores below as if through some hidden jungle. She could sit up and see... but she doesn't want to see, not now, not yet. Lets her eyes fall closed until all she sees is the flicker of the lamp against her eyelids; like before, outlines, the sense of shape, but now traced by touch, as real beneath her hand as Daryl's crossbow was.

She sighs out, long, loud, louder than she knows she should but she can't help herself, not when she feels so _good_ , feels that familiar sensation of motion in her body: not just her hand between her legs but her mind moving out from between her eyes and sliding like honey through her limbs and veins, abandoning speech and responding with color. Pinks and violets, yellow like daffodils blooming beneath her skin, their popping bulbs pushing at her pores and escaping her mouth in a rush, a moan that she feels all the way down to her curling toes.

“Lord,” she whispers, a hitched breath on its heels as her finger begins to move faster, chasing that delicious feeling in her stomach that had scared her so the first time she did this. Lord, had she been scared: scared of what she was doing, the certain sin of it, the realization that there was something beyond the pressure of a seam, that a whole universe existed inside her that for 16 years she knew nothing about. And she had forgotten; in the days of denial and the weeks of rote desperation, in the aftermath of the end when this felt like both her salvation and the closest she could get to death, she forgot what it was to take time with herself. To not worry that her moans would filter through the wall and disturb her sickening mother. To let nonsense words roll from her tongue as she reaches back desperately, plunging one finger, then two inside herself and returning to her clit. It's swimming now in wet, pulsing with each beat of her heart, her inner walls clenching and if she weren't blocked by her pants–, next time, next time she'll use both hands, strip down to her skin and spread her legs the width of the tent and fill her gasping hole with her fingers, nails always carefully trimmed but more-so now, squeezing inside herself to have something to squeeze against, searching for that spot she only finds sometimes that makes her cry out no matter how quiet she should be–

She doesn't penetrate herself again but just the thought of it has her breaths chasing each other as her fingers fly across her clit; her fingers or a toy, the toy she used her friend's credit card to buy and is stashed in her closet somewhere, used once or twice before she realized fingers were best, at least on her own—and oh, oh, if she weren't on her own. If it was someone else's hand pushing up under her shirt to grip her breast, hand large and hot and rough but careful in that roughness, yes, just enough strength in the squeeze to wring her dry as their fingers joins hers, taking one side of her clit as she takes the other, leaving her clit to herself and reaching for her entrance and _spreading_ her, jesus, her own fingers are so slim and she sometimes looks at other people's hands and wonders how wide they would stretch inside her like that, just one or two when it takes three of her own to feel much of anything, but that isn't what she's doing now—her clit is burning, stomach clenching and releasing and clenching again and she's arching, mouth dropped open in a throat-scraping groan as the first of it shoots through her, then the panting, desperate squeals as she bucks and seizes and grabs hold of her labia like a life preserver–

And then slowly, slow, it ends—her muscles relaxing into something like molasses, hips hitching forward, her insides pulsing rhythmically—and she presses one small finger inside herself and squeezes down on it, feels the hypnotic roll of her walls as they pump away with no input from her conscious self. It reminds her of the tremor she gets between her eyes from too much reading; how fascinating it feels to rest a finger across it, feel her own muscles fluttering like they belong to someone else, are controlled by someone else, pulsing beneath her skin like a brand new heartbeat...

Beth pulls her finger out of herself, but doesn't go far; cups the sopping wet between her legs, holding herself as her breaths continue to slow and her mind begins to return, slithering up to perch behind her eyelids. She feels its insistent knocking and whines out loud, squeezing herself down there, chasing the last sparks of sensation as the thoughts grow and grow–

Beth opens her eyes. Is disoriented for a moment by the unfamiliar neon green; thinks of her own ceiling blue in the dark, much farther away, less moveable—and she wonders if the tent convulsed as she did, writhing on the grass as she writhed on her towel, sending fireworks into the night.

She pulls her hand from between her legs. Cups her fingers to gather what slick she can; presses it against her towel so there is less to soak through her pajamas. Closes her eyes for a few more moments, missing it already, the exertion, the distraction; opens them and gropes for the watch with her clean hand, marks the time. That took longer than she thought it did. It's only ten minutes until her hour is up.

Beth collapses back onto the sleeping bag, clean hand stretched out beside her with the watch held in a loose grip, her other hand, drying quickly, finding its way back to her lower stomach. Smearing a few spots of wet there. She shifts her hips and feels how sopping her underwear is; is glad of the low light, that even Daryl's keen eyes would miss the stain. Unless he was looking for it, maybe.

Beth shivers. Violently. She doesn't know why. Maybe because in the moment when she pictures Daryl staring at the evidence of her orgasm she also inhales and notes for the first time the smells around her: her own musky sweet, and _oh god he'll smell that_ , she thinks with widening eyes; the smell of nylon and dirt and something she's only ever caught in passing, what she imagines the crook of his neck might smell like...

_Jesus, Bethany Anne. Jesus._

Beth shakes herself all over, pushing thoughts of Daryl to the back of her mind; thinks of Jimmy instead, wonders idly if she could coax him into this. Not into Daryl's tent, god no; but just touching her. Whether he would find as much satisfaction in her body's unconsciously made slick as she does; whether he would spread his hand across the alternating textures, each one different from each other and any other spot on her body.

She doesn't have much of a physical reaction to those thoughts. She feels curious. A little excited to imagine someone else's hands on her, no matter that she could never imagine Jimmy being rough—rough not out of malice, but in surrender: losing himself and forgetting himself in his desperation to consume her.

She still can't picture it. Not Jimmy, who she played with in the hay as a child.

 _Maybe there's something hidden in him,_ she thinks, _just like there is in me. No one looks at me and thinks of me like this. They never have. That's always been Maggie. And maybe it's better that way. Maybe it's better to have this secret with myself and no one else. Won't get me real sex any time soon, but... but do I want that, really? Having someone else in this moment with me, someone as full up as I get with nowhere for all that to_ go _, no space when you're tangled together, the only people in the world..._

Something rustles outside the tent—pointedly, if she could give a sound a motive—and she sits up quickly, licking her dry lips and getting up on her knees, folding the towel carefully to hide the wet spot on it, pressing her damp butt against her heels. It might make sense to bring another pair of pants to change into next time; the wet panties she can deal with but she feels so conspicuous with her pajamas soaked through...

Something taps at the tent near the top of the zipper. Beth's eyes widen, her mind shooting to the knife; she left it, where'd she leave it, oh _shoot_ of all the times–

“Beth? You done?”

Beth closes her eyes, breathes out slowly and shakes her head at her own jumpiness. Of course it's Daryl. No one else would announce their presence to what looks from the outside like an empty tent. She bets she would have heard them approaching too, no matter how the blood still rushes in her ears. She realizes now that the rustle from before _was_ pointed, meant to announce his presence. Something about that image—Daryl taking the effort to _make_ noise, when everyone else stomps around like elephants in comparison—makes her giggle, catching on the champagne bubbles of euphoria left over from her orgasm.

“Yeah,” she says, trying to keep the laughter out of her voice, keep it low, steady, adult. She remembers then where she left the knife and lunges behind herself to grab it, is sitting peacefully again by the time Daryl has the zipper all the way to the floor.

He doesn't poke his head in like she expects him to, and after a few seconds of silence she realizes he's waiting for her. She scoots off the sleeping bag onto the tent floor, yanking on her boots and reaching over to turn off the gas lamp before crawling out.

The darkness is disorienting, as is the knowledge that Daryl's in the dark there with her. She had felt so blissfully alone touching herself in the tent; like it'd become a magic carpet or something, sweeping her high above the Earth where no walker or person could touch her. It's strange to feel her feet sturdy on the ground, to look up and see Daryl's inky outline, this other person suddenly in her space.

 _He's not in your space, you're in_ his, Beth thinks with irritation, shifting in her boots, wanting to stamp out the pins and needles she'd gotten from standing so suddenly. She is acutely aware of just how damp her pajama bottoms are, how tacky her hand is; she sticks it in the towel's folds, worried that Daryl might brush against it in the dark.

He doesn't seem to have such pedestrian concerns; as soon as she's on her feet he's grunting at her and turning around. It takes her a moment to get it, and then she's taking hold of the crossbow strap again. It feels strange to do it with her other hand this time; odd to see the white of her bandage glowing almost as brightly as the light bouncing off his crossbow's curves.

“Ready?” he asks.

She nods, then remembers he isn't looking at her and says, “Yeah. Yeah, go on.”

He starts forward without another word, walking like she isn't even there, and after being so caught up in her own head it annoys her.

“You ain't gonna ask how it went?”

Daryl lets out an incredulous breath. She gets the sense he's twisting his neck to look at her. “Didn't think it was any of my business.”

“Well. Yes. You're right. It isn't.”

Daryl snorts, turning back forward. Beth looks at the ground she can't see, feeling unbearably awkward. The high she'd achieved in the tent is fading quickly and she wonders what the heck she's doing out here.

“How-, how'd your hour go?” she asks, just for something to say.

“Fine,” he grunts. A pause. “Need more cigarettes.”

“Maggie has some hidden; I can show you where they are.”

“You'd sell out your own sister for me?”

Beth can't quite decipher his tone; the words are spoken in too low a register, too deep in his throat, but she hears bitterness there, bitterness she doesn't understand. She wishes suddenly that she could see his face, even it would mean he could see hers as well. His expressions are hard to read too but they might give her some guidance.

“I don't think she's gonna use them,” Beth says carefully. “She liked to have a pack when she went on dates. Probably made her feel more badass or something.”

“Sounds familiar,” Daryl mutters. Beth waits, but he doesn't continue. If she weren't clinging to his crossbow strap, didn't feel his momentum pulling her forward, she would think he had walked off without her.

“So...” she says, a wiggle in her stomach compelling her to fill the silence, “you're ok with this? Every night?”

She feels Daryl shrug, not breaking his stride. “Ain't got nothing better to do,” he says. There's another silence, but not as uncomfortable as the last one. She's surprised when Daryl breaks it. “Maybe your good vibes'll rub off on the rest of the house. Get the stick outta everyone's asses.”

Beth laughs—louder than she expects, louder than she should, and she doesn't need the feeling of Daryl's eyes on her to reign herself in—and adjusts her hold on the strap, rubbing her sticky fingers in the towel against each other. Some of the giddiness of before returns, and her smile doesn't drop when she turns to him.

“I have orgasm fairy dust, you mean?”

She can't see it, but something in his tone tells her he's smirking. “Yeah. Regular old Tinkerbell.”

“I won't get any on you, though,” Beth says, struck by the absurd urge to loop her arm through his. “We need _someone_ thinking clearly, right?”

Daryl doesn't answer her, and Beth feels a prickle of unease at the base of her neck, like she said something wrong.

When he speaks, though, he doesn't sound annoyed. Just quiet. Like it took him a while to come up with the words. “You keep bringing a towel, ok? Was a good idea. And _don't_ lose that knife.”

Beth wiggles her ankle as she walks, feeling the weapon shift in her boot. She didn't have a chance to take the strap off yet, so it presses into her shin uncomfortably, but she feels good having it there. Safer. More adult.

“A towel is the most useful thing in the universe, ya know,” she chirps. “Don't need a knife as long as I've got that.”

“One orgasm and you go batshit,” Daryl mutters.

“Who said it was just one?”

It _was_ just one, so Beth doesn't know why she says that. Whatever its intended effect, it shuts Daryl up for the rest of the walk to the porch. He stops at the base of the stairs and waits while she gropes for the bannister, walking up easily on her own once she's found it. At the top of the stairs she pauses, turning to look down.

It's dark as ever, and quiet as Daryl is he might have slipped away already. But she fancies he's still there, and will hear her.

“Thank you, Daryl,” she says, just loud enough to carry down the steps but not beyond. “You don't know...” Beth swallows heavily, tears suddenly prickling at her eyes. God, has coming always made her this emotional? “You don't know what this means to me. Being able to do this. Thank you.”

She waits for several seconds, hoping... then sighs into the silence. He left after all, then. For some reason that makes her sad.

She has her hand on the latch of the screen door when she hears it. Quiet enough she could have imagined it; quiet enough it could be coming from the ground while she's still up in the air.

“G'night, Beth.”

Beth waits a moment, but there's nothing else, and this time she's sure he's gone. She hopes he gets back to his tent safely. She hopes he can find some sleep too.

“Good night, Daryl,” she whispers, and with a tug on the door slides back into the quiet house.

 


	5. Carried Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jimmy attempts to make amends with Beth, and they both attend a shooting lesson that doesn't go quite as planned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe anyone is still reading, let alone enjoying, this ridiculous story. It was supposed to be a crack fic, but then Beth decided she needed to think about things and that led to plot and here we are. So, basically, this boat doesn't have a very good rudder and y'all are awesome for sticking with it anyway. 
> 
> I hope you let me know what you think. Your comments are invaluable for figuring out where the hell to take this thing.
> 
> Also—I have never held a gun in my life and was too lazy to do research so any and all shooting advice is completely made up. Bad writer, I know.
> 
> Warning for some references to Beth's suicide attempt.

It's a day of overcast but unfortunately no rain. Beth knows Daddy and Mr. Grimes have been discussing the state of the wells, what to do if they run dry. She hopes they have a plan. There's a river that runs about a mile away, and maybe some creeks in the woods, but the only way to access that water would be through bucket and pail. Beth doesn't think they would stay at the farm if that happened; or if they did, it would be unwise. Having the comfort and sturdy structures is a blessing but not enough of one to necessitate miles of walking every day just to have enough to drink, let alone bathe in.

Beth hasn't had the time to clean herself up after the night before—fell straight into bed, wet bottoms and all, and slept through the hustle and bustle of the beginning of the day so she barely had time to pee—and even in jeans and new panties she doesn't feel completely fresh. Keeps thinking the others will smell it on her, what she did last night. She hasn't felt that particular worry since she first started experimenting, and there's even less reason to stress about it now. No one smells especially rosy, and with the sweat that the humidity pulls from every crevice, Beth doesn't doubt the smell is stronger under her arms than between her legs. Still, the entire morning that she spends weeding she can't stop her thoughts from running to the bathroom, the five minutes it would take to strip off her bottoms and suds herself up with hand-soap. She would just get up and do it but no one has taken a break yet and she doesn't want to be the first.

“Hey.”

Beth looks up, strands of hair sticking to her forehead as she squints to make the figure out against the gray sky.

The moment she recognizes the short hair and lanky form her stomach plummets. She wishes it wouldn't. She wishes she could be like Maggie, showing her boyfriend the affection he deserves.

She isn't like Maggie, though, and Jimmy is nothing like Glenn, and as he squats down next to her she finds herself shifting to put a little distance between them.

“Hey Jimmy,” she says as brightly as she can, wishing she had the sun to blame her red cheeks on. He doesn't seem to notice, though; doesn't seem to be _trying_ to notice, the way he meets her gaze in fleeting glances.

“I wanted to, uh... haven't talked to you in a while.”

“We've been busy,” Beth says, turning her eyes back to her work, hoping that not looking at him will calm her down. “Everyone is.”

“Yeah, but, you know... you're not dating _everyone_.”

That stills Beth's hands. She looks up. Jimmy still isn't meeting her eyes. Is absent-mindedly tugging at a stalk she's pretty sure is a carrot plant.

“What do you mean by that?”

“I... nothing. Don't take it the wrong way, Beth, c'mon.”

“So tell me how I should take it,” Beth says slowly, trying to lean into Jimmy's eye-line. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No! No, not at all, it's just... I've missed you.”

Beth laughs incredulously. “Jimmy, I'm right here.”

“You know what I mean,” Jimmy says. “Since you... since Shane did, that... I feel like you don't want me around, is all.”

Beth feels her veins turn to ice, even on this hot day. The scar on her wrist begins to itch. “Since I tried to kill myself, you mean.” Jimmy doesn't reply, and Beth blows out an angry breath. “If you can't even say it, I think you've found your answer, huh?”

“Just wait a minute, ok, I...”

Beth turns away from him.

A sturdy hand closes around her wrist—her unblemished wrist—and she's brought back to those few months before everything fell apart, when Beth was awash with the glow of a first boyfriend and the prestige that brought, in school and at home. How Daddy sighed and shook his head but didn't bother to hide his smile. The hours Maggie spent in Beth's room, going over every detail as if Jimmy were a stranger and not someone Maggie'd known since he was born.

He first held her hand on one of the early spring days, just warm enough to eat outside instead of the cafeteria, but not enough to linger long. Beth and Jimmy had finished their lunch and were sitting together under an oak tree. Beth was cold but didn’t know what to say. Didn't know if Jimmy would take the cue and give her his jacket or not. _That's the first test to see if he's serious_ , Maggie had told her. Beth responded that Maggie'd seen too many John Hughes movies—but Beth watched those movies too, loved those movies, had a crush on a boy in middle school cause he looked just like Jake Ryan, and in her silly teenage mind Jimmy giving or not giving his jacket would mean the beginning or the end of everything.

He ended up standing before she got around to saying anything and once she was upright too he asked if he could hold her hand. And she blushed and smiled and thought that his fingers cupping hers felt better than a jacket ever would.

Those superficial rituals are gone now, or Beth wishes they were. Before Mr. Grimes and his people came she and Jimmy continued their courtship, for the distraction more than anything else. There were no high school hallways to act as their stage, but he carried dirty dishes for her and sat a respectful distance away on the couch and held her hand when they happened to be near each other. It rankled Beth, especially the way Maggie would look at them, like Beth had fallen asleep and grown a ring on her finger overnight. But she put up with it. Engaged with it. Threw herself into Jimmy's halting kisses because that's what a girl her age _should_ be doing, and it made the rest of the house relax a little to see that little slice of normal continue.

It bothered Beth, but she didn't realize until the group arrived exactly how much. How _young_ they made her feel, these people already used to fighting, strong women and big men who she felt she irritated more than anything. The first time she giggled in front of them—for Jimmy, of course for Jimmy, because she's his girl and when a girl's boyfriend says something she's supposed to laugh—they looked at her blankly, like they'd forgotten such a noise existed. As if she had opened her mouth and bleated like a sheep. And now–

Jimmy stayed away from her for three whole days after she cut her wrist. Those three days when she was resting, either Maggie or Lori or Patricia with her at all times like she couldn't be trusted, and she supposes in their eyes she couldn't—for three days she waited for Jimmy to show up. Drop by, like he would at her locker at the end of the day. She didn't especially hold out hope for it. Felt a little nervous when she imagined him looking at her, tried to figure out what she'd say.

But it didn't matter. He stayed away and even after she left her bed he was always so hard to find. Not that she went looking for him often. She saw how he stuck with Mr. Walsh, with T-Dog, puffing himself up like those big men. Not with her. With the people who would survive this.

She isn't angry with him for it. Might even be a little relieved that she doesn't have to keep up their dance. But he's making her angry now, his evasions and half apologies and his hand feeling so unfamiliar around her wrist.

Her unmarked wrist.

Fighting down nausea, she obliges, and looks at him. Forces her expression into blankness, receptiveness, the caring girl he liked to kiss. He doesn't try to kiss her now. But his expression is so sad, so beseeching— _pathetic_ , a cruel little voice inside her whispers—that she finds herself genuinely willing to listen.

“I–, I'm sorry Beth. You needed me and I blew it. But–, but I still love you, you know?”

It's a word they've used since they were kids, “love.” Beth hopes he still means it in that childhood way. Not the other way, the one that demands reciprocation.

“I just want to make things work,” he continues. He's still holding her wrist. “Shane said he'd set up some more shooting lessons today. You could come along if you want.” A smile breaks across his face. “I'm getting to be a pretty good shot, you know.”

Beth has watched some of these lessons from the front window and she isn't so sure their teachers would agree with Jimmy's self-assessment, but she smiles along anyway. It was decided after Beth cut herself that giving her a gun, even under supervision, would be a mistake. No one told her that but she knew.

She thinks about the knife in her boot, still pressing uncomfortably even without the strap but she supposes she should get used to some discomfort. Better that than not being able to defend herself.

“I would like that. Thank you Jimmy,” Beth says. She gives him another smile, then turns back to the weeds. Doesn't want to see the relief in his expression, like his stuttered apology means anything.

No, it does mean something, it does—he's trying, and he cares about her, and he'd be sad if she died. And she loved him long before they started dating.

She's vaguely aware of Jimmy asking again if she'll come, even though she just said she would; she answers without really paying attention, waits until he walks away before sitting back on her heels, wiping a forearm across her sweaty forehead and sighing.

She looks up at the cloudy sky. Hopes it rains soon, so they won't have to leave. Hopes it rains soon, so this darned humidity would break and she could breathe again. Despite the early hour she longs for night to fall; smiles to herself because that hope is no longer based solely on a break in the heat.

As if the thought conjured him up, when she looks away from the sky she sees Daryl. Talking to Mr. Grimes about something. Even from this distance Beth can see Daryl's scowl, a few steps beyond his usual sour expression. She wonders what's gotten him so wound up. Hopes he got some sleep last night. She needs to remember to ask. The moment it feels like this arrangement between them is putting him out she'll stop it. It's only been one night and the thought of there being no more makes her stomach drop, but she's told herself she isn't going to inconvenience him. Especially not when the group relies on him so much. Watch them all get killed because Daryl is too tired after being pushed from his own tent one night too many.

He and Mr. Grimes have stopped talking; Daryl is stalking off, Mr. Grimes watching him with his hands on his waist. Beth wants to go after Daryl, find out what's wrong, but she knows he wouldn't welcome it. It's probably something to do with protecting the farm anyway, or gathering supplies. Nothing that concerns her.

Beth shifts and winces when her lips rub together in her panties, reminding her of her need to wash and wash soon. She looks around and sees that few people in the yard are actually working. Glenn and T-Dog are laid out side by side on the lawn, arms spread as if taking a break from the heat. Mr. Walsh is watching Lori hang laundry, and now Mr. Grimes has turned to look at Mr. Walsh. Beth sees the tightness in Mr. Grimes's shoulders, completely absent when he was talking with Daryl. Mr. Grimes looks at Lori too, Carl beside her handing up clothespins and looking bored. Beth used to do the same for Mama when Beth was still too short to hang the clothes herself.

Beth climbs to her feet, dusting off her jeans and shaking her legs to get rid of the stiffness from sitting for so long. She gives one last look around and heads for the house. Lori meets her eyes and smiles, and Beth smiles back. Beth could stop to say hello but the awareness of the area between her legs is growing more insistent. She'll come back out and help Lori when she's done. It will only take a few minutes and then the night, for a time, will be gone.

* * *

It's still cloudy, but not dark; she can easily spot the sun just past its apex in the sky, obscured like a flashlight beam seen through a shower curtain. Beth stands in the line of people facing the bales of hay and the crudely drawn targets hanging from them. In the dreary half-light it's easy to let her eyes un-focus, allow the cardboard stock cut into vaguely human shapes to come alive. They swim in her vision on their fields of gold, so similar to the lawn her mama had fallen on, the wavering outlines trembling like they're prepared to begin lurching forward.

“You don't want to hold it that tight, ok?”

Beth blinks and the targets once more come clear. Not walkers an inch from noticing her. The sides of old boxes they hadn't gotten 'round to recycling.

Beth blinks and looks up to Jimmy at her side. He's much more confident now than he was earlier in the day, seems to have been ever since he picked up the revolver from their pile of guns. A pile of guns. A sight Beth never planned to see in her life, that now stands as one of the group's most prized possessions.

“What?” she asks, shaking her head a little. “Sorry, I was thinking of something else.”

“Shouldn't do that with a gun in your hand,” Jimmy says, like he would know. He sticks his revolver down the front of his pants ( _safety on, thank god_ , Beth thinks) and reaches over to pull at Beth's fingers, white where they squeeze the stock of her rifle. She hadn't even noticed. Had picked the gun at random and stepped in line, holding it slanted across her front like she'd seen Angelina Jolie do in movies.

She didn't realize how tight her muscles had locked in order to hold that pose, and she shakes her body to loosen herself up, effectively flinging Jimmy's hands off of her. If he notices her intentionality, he doesn't show it; continues talking to her like their chat in the garden had fixed everything between them. Like he's become a gun instructor himself, despite the fact that he's only had a handful of lessons. She listens, though; he has more experience than she does, he might know something useful. She shifts her stance like he tells her to, continues trying to relax as she focuses on his voice instead of all the others clamoring in her head.

She's looking down at her knees, trying to get just the right bend that Jimmy's asking for, when he goes silent. Beth looks up at him, sees a confused scowl on his face; looks at Carol on her other side, who is standing up taller, a hint of steel in her eyes. Beth's about to open her mouth and ask what's going on when Jimmy beats her to it.

“Where's Shane?”

Beth looks in the direction of his gaze and her stomach clenches. Daryl is stalking toward them, crossbow hanging off his back and clearly not happy about being here; steam is practically pouring from his ears. He glances at Jimmy, then away, gaze skipping over Beth completely in a way that does _not_ sting.

“Rick wanted to do a bunch'a runs today,” Daryl says. His eyes flick across the people in front of him. Beth doesn't think he looks very impressed. She wonders if this is what he and Mr. Grimes were talking about earlier. “Left me to deal with your sorry asses.”

“I thought Shane was teaching us today–“

“Your boyfriend'll be back later,” Daryl growls at Jimmy. Beth ducks her head, hiding her twitching smile. “So. Y'all know what a gun looks like. That's good.” He walks out of their line of fire, although their gazes follow him. He pauses and seems to bristle with all those eyes on him. “The fuck you looking at me for, start shooting.”

“Beth's never used a rifle before,” Jimmy says.

Beth tenses up, wishing she could kick Jimmy in the shin without anyone noticing. She settles for squaring her shoulders as Daryl turns his eyes on her. This isn't like when he looks at her in the dark. Not at all. She can feels his eyes on her just as heavily, but it isn't a comfortable feeling. She thought last night that seeing him in the day would be helpful, would let her read his expressions, but he doesn't look anything much beyond annoyed.

“How's that my problem?”

“Shane told me he'd show her cause she's only ever used a pistol–“

“You gonna shoot her gun too or just speak for her all day?” Jimmy's mouth clicks shut. Beth stands up straighter and she's prepared when Daryl meets her eyes. It's only for a moment, and then he's looking away, pointing at the hay bales and sweeping his eyes across all of them. “Take the safety off, point, shoot. Get going.”

No one else raises any objections, although Beth can tell Jimmy wants to. A few weeks ago she would have found it sweet, him standing up for her. But it isn't a few weeks ago. She doesn't look at Jimmy as she turns back to the targets, checking the ammo and clicking off the safety and raising the gun to her shoulder.

Beth might never have fired a rifle before, but she's seen other people do it, and she tries to settle into a stance that feels right. The gun is heavier than she thought it would be, harder to keep balanced, and she can tell she's gonna need some strength training too if she's expected to be any good at this. She thinks for a moment that she should have traded guns with Jimmy before Daryl got here; she's used that one before, at the one training session she attended, and she'd be less likely to make a fool of herself. But with a glance at Daryl she's glad she picked this one. He's obviously most comfortable with his crossbow, but she's seen him shoot a gun before. Different kinds of guns. Whatever's on hand. If (when) Beth's in a position where she needs to use one of these, she doubts she'll have the time to pick out her favorite.

Soon the air is echoing with the sounds of gunshots and Beth screws up her face, wishing someone had thought of getting some of those earmuffs they have at shooting ranges. She doesn't complain though; settles her feet into the ground, puts her finger on the trigger, and fires.

A cry rips from her lips as the stock slams into her shoulder, driving out her breath and leaving behind a numbness that she knows will turn to ache in a few minutes. She shakes off Jimmy's attempts to help her—she doesn't know what he's doing exactly, but she doesn't want him doing it; she's gonna learn this for _herself—_ and cocks the gun again, lifting it and shifting her shoulder farther back before she shoots.

The impact isn't as jarring this time but it still makes her hiss and grit her teeth. At least Jimmy is taking the hint and has stopped fussing, although she can feel his eyes on her now and again. She wants to shout at him that neither of them are gonna learn anything if they're distracting each other, but she manages to reign in her anger. She cocks the rifle, looks down the range at her target (both shots hit the cardboard; not anywhere near the head but it's a start), and already anticipating the pain begins to line up her shot.

“Hold up.”

Daryl says it quietly enough that she knows he's speaking to her alone. She begins to turn to look at him but his fingers on her shoulder blade stop her. She bites her lip and turns back to the target. She knows he's behind her now, paying attention to her, and she wants so badly to get it right.

“Lift it like you're gonna shoot but don't shoot yet.” She does as he says, squinting down the scope as she had the first two times, the cardboard head in her sights. “Both eyes open,” Daryl says. “Messes with your perspective when you close one.”

“I can't see as well through the scope, though,” she says in the same low pitch that he's using; quiet, but she knows he hears.

“Y'ain't always gonna have a scope,” he says. In the back of her mind she registers how patient he sounds, and how surprising that is, but she keeps her focus on the gun in her hand. “Ya know when you're staring into space and your eyes goes fuzzy? Try that, but keep the scope clear.”

 _Well that's easy_ , Beth thinks wryly, letting her eyes slip out of focus as she had earlier. She breathes slowly, deeply. Looks down the scope and forces the rest of it away until all she can see clearly is the little red cross in the glass.

“Got it,” Beth says, steadier than she expected.

“Now loosen up. Ain't gonna bite you,” Daryl says. Her neck is prickling and she knows he's stepped closer, is looking over her shoulder with her, but she forces the nerves of his proximity away. She's stood close to him in the dark and it never bothered her. This is just the same. She breathes in and out again slowly, wiggling her shoulders and hips and commanding the knots in them to loosen. Daryl touches her elbow and she doesn't startle. “Lift up. It'll catch the kickback.”

“Where'd you learn how to do this?” Beth murmurs.

“Kindergarten,” Daryl says in the same tone of voice. Beth snorts but holds her stance; moves her feet when Daryl kicks at them, rolls her shoulders and keeps her elbow high. He's very close now, she can tell, but she isn't focusing on it and it doesn't make her tense up like it should. If anything, the nearness of him—his heat behind her, the slow puffs of breath she feels on her neck—relaxes her more. Without meaning to her breath falls into synch with his and his voice is no more than a whisper. “You're almost done. When you wanna, you're gonna shoot, but you ain't yanking that trigger like a rope. Ease on over it.” Beth follows his instructions, letting her finger inch across the curved plastic, her heart pounding in her ears. “You're gonna press on it, nice and gentle. Follow your breathing, the pulse in your thumb. Wait till it feels good.” She breathes out, lines up the shot. Her finger doesn't tremble.

“ _Yeah, girl, you know how to do it right.”_

Beth gasps and pulls the trigger, knowing as she does that she missed it; the bullet shaves a few strands off the corner of the hay bale, vanishing into the distance.

Daryl's left her; she no longer feels his presence at her back, his calming breath in her ear. She lowers the stock and looks up and just catches sight of one bright red ear sticking out of his hair before Jimmy's body blocks her view.

Her breathing isn't controlled now. It's ragged. She closes her eyes and bows her head.

He spoke those words practically against her skin. She felt his beard prickling her shoulder right before she shot. Her neck tingles where his breath had moistened it and she tucks her trigger finger into her fist, trying to stop it from shaking.

It takes a minute to pull herself together. To unwind what had been yanked tight. To slow her heart and will the blood where it's _supposed_ to go at a time like this. To square her legs and raise the stock to her shoulder and try again.

She hits the cardboard this time. A few inches below where she wanted it; if it were a human, the bullet would have gone through their throat. Wouldn't kill a walker, or slow it up. But it's a start. Would definitely put a person down.

They go at it for a few more minutes before Daryl says to put their guns away. His voice is hoarse and he sounds angry, angrier than before. Doesn't even wait to watch them dump the left-over ammo before he's striding towards the woods, hand on his crossbow strap like Beth's had been the night before, white knuckled and scraped.

 


	6. Stand By Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Beth's second night of borrowing Daryl's tent, and she and Daryl still have a bit of negotiating to do if they're going to make this work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't seen it, the spectacular glorious (etc.) Nikita has created a stunning [illustration](http://sail-not-drift.tumblr.com/post/159880516225/nikitajobson-missing-pages-by-schwoozie) for this story! Not only is it breathtaking, it also means that I have no choice but to finish this fic now. I can procrastinate by staring at the painting and drooling in awe or something.
> 
> Anyhoo, I hope you're in the mood for more Bethyl arguments and sexual tension :)

Beth doesn't call out for him this time, although after a few minutes she's starting to wonder if she should. He could be testing her, seeing how long she'll hold out before hollering for him like a lost puppy. Standing somewhere in plain sight and waiting for her to notice him. She already checked the corner he'd hid in the night before and found nothing.

With a sliver of moon in the sky she can see a little better, although the clouds from the day still linger. The moon inching out from behind the clouds reminds her of the times she'd sat with Shawn and watched thunderstorms through the front window: The pervading darkness broken only by cracks of lightning illuminating the fields like a flickering flashlight. The moonlight isn't anywhere near as dramatic, of course; there's no thunder, and the light it sheds does little more than strengthen the outline of things.

Shawn was a good shot, just like Maggie is. Daddy didn't want any of his children handling guns, but in the end he had to bend to the whims of rural Georgia. When they could vote, he said, they could shoot guns. Beth never got there, of course, but she'd followed Shawn and Maggie a few times when they went into the woods, a clearing just beyond the lines of the Greene family property. She wonders what she would see if she went to that spot again. If she could even find it. The beer cans that Maggie and Shawn dared each other to drink, that Beth never touched; used shells, pockmarks in the trees, the last bits of paint they used to make targets flaking off the bark.

They only had one gun between them, a little pistol that Shawn bought off a friend at school. Maggie and Shawn would trade off, emptying the clip before passing the gun and reloading, taunting each other whether they made a good shot or not. Beth spent most of her time there writing in her journal or working on homework, but sometimes she'd watch them; how elegant they looked when the sun hit them just right, how natural the gun came to look in their hands. Seeing Mr. Grimes and Mr. Walsh handling firearms has shown her how amateur Maggie and Shawn actually were, but to her younger eyes they were mythical; _cool_ , like they ought to be wearing leather jackets and aviators or something.

If Shawn were still alive he would teach Beth how to shoot in a second. Wouldn't hem and haw like Daddy and Maggie and Patricia did when they found out about the lesson Beth attended. Shawn was a jokester, only serious when he had the energy to be, but Beth always felt like he understood her better than Maggie did.

He was the only one home when she got her first period. Didn't freak out like Maggie and Mama did when they got back. She whispered to him that her stomach hurt and she was bleeding and he didn't say a thing; found Maggie's supplies in the back of the bathroom cabinet, got her an Advil, and watched a movie with her until the others came home.

Mama burst into tears when Beth told her, hugged Beth to her chest and called her a “little woman” even thought Beth didn't feel like one at all. Didn't want to feel like that. She wanted to rejoin Shawn in the living room and sit at opposite ends of the couch and keep watching TV like they would on any other day.

Shawn got it, that she doesn't relish drama like Maggie does. That she'd prefer a smooth swell to choppy seas any day of the week.

She doesn't have the luxury of that kind of life any more. Doesn't have her brother either. Just a shoulder still sore from a session of shooting.

Beth sighs, leaning against the bannister and looking out into the night, wondering if Daryl decided that he's had enough of her today. Her horrible shooting... what he must think of her. What's the point of walking her through the dark if she's gonna die in the first walker attack anyway?

But... no. No. She did good today. He didn't say so but she knows she did, and she knows he knows it. She doesn't know what he was trying to do when he spoke into her neck—distract her, probably, although she never would have expected him to play games like that—but after that she used his advice, and it helped. She isn't going to be outshooting Andrea any time soon but maybe she could get good like Shawn was. Make him proud, maybe.

“Shit, you're still here?”

Beth jumps, cursing herself for her repeated obliviousness as her gaze snaps to the base of the porch stairs. The clouds take that moment to part and she can just make him out; his familiar silhouette with a few details filled in, his scowl first among them.

“Yeah,” Beth says, composing herself. “You said you'd be here.”

“Thought you'd give up,” he says under his breath. “When I didn't show.”

“But you did show,” Beth says, hurrying down the steps before the clouds move again and she can't see her footing anymore. Daryl steps back so her momentum doesn't slam her into him, but doesn't push her away when she gets her hand on his crossbow strap. “Why are you late anyway?”

The moon goes back behind the clouds and she can't make out his expression, but she knows he's looking at her.

“Didn't think you'd wanna be alone with me.”

Beth laughs, shaking her head. “Why would you think that?”

Daryl doesn't say anything, but she can tell he's breathing harder than normal. Feels his breath puffing against her face in the cool night.

“Don't matter,” Daryl mumbles, turning and taking a stride before Beth can register his words. She stumbles after him, righting herself after a few steps.

They spend the next few minutes in silence save the sound of Beth's boots on the ground. She feels herself becoming annoyed. If he's gonna be late, the least he could do is talk to her.

“Thanks for the lesson today,” she finally says. Daryl doesn't break his stride, but she knows he's listening. “I know you didn't want to be there, but you're good at it. Teaching.” Daryl snorts, but she presses on. “I got better after you helped me, right?” Again, he says nothing. “Well, I think I did. A little more practice–“

“We gonna talk about this all night?” His voice grates coming out of his throat, and she looks up at him, surprised.

“I thought that's what you'd like to talk about,” Beth says. “Guns and whatever. If there's something else–“

“Don't gotta talk at all.”

Beth falls silent, looking at the silhouette beside her. He's bristling more aggressively than usual tonight.

“Did Daddy get angry with you that you didn't stop me from shooting?”

“Thought we weren't gonna talk,” he mutters. She waits, though, and he ends up continuing. “Didn't talk to me. Talked to Rick. He told me.”

“Was he mad too?” Beth asks softly.

“Nah. Just tired. I think he agrees with me anyway.”

“About what?”

“You don't need lessons to blow your own brains out.”

Beth stops walking, maintaining her grip on the crossbow strap even as it strains against her hand. She barely registers the pain, the muscles in her arm that activate to hold her still. Daryl stops too and turns back towards her.

“What?” he snaps.

“You think I'm safe, then? Safe from myself, I mean.”

“I don't give a shit,” he responds hotly. “If you wanna die you're gonna die. Just easier now than it used to be.”

Beth scowls, yanking her hand away from Daryl as if he'd burned her.

“That's really what you want everyone to think, huh?” Beth asks, knowing that she's speaking too loudly and yet not caring all that much. “That you don't give a shit about any of us?”

“Who the fuck says otherwise?” he asks.

Beth throws her arms out, knowing his keen eyes can see her. “Uh, _this_? Just cause you're lending me your tent doesn't mean you gotta walk me back and forth.”

“And what'd happen if you didn't come back one night, huh? Got a chunk bit out of your pretty little ass on your way to see _me_? You think your daddy'd wait for an explanation before blowing my head off?”

“What's it matter if I'm going to see you?” she asks. “Dead is dead, right? And you're one of us anyway, there's any number of reasons–“ Daryl snorts, and Beth feels a spike of panic in her chest when she senses him taking a few steps away from her. “Daryl–“

“Only one reason they'd think of, sweetheart,” Daryl spits out.

“But that's not _why_!” she shouts, loud, louder than either of them have been or ever should be, but for the moment she doesn't give a shit. At least her outburst seems to have stopped Daryl in his tracks. When she speaks again it's quieter, but no less intense. “You wouldn't be doing this if that was why.”

“How do you know that?”

“Cause that isn't you.”

A few moments of empty, desperate silence. When he speaks, his voice sounds like it's gone through a cheese grater. “How do you _know_?”

And Beth feels tears gathering behind her eyes and she doesn't _want_ that. She wants him to understand, she wants–

It isn't like she understands herself, not really. Not when he set himself up as far away as possible to get _away_ from her and all her people, and here he is, leading her to his space, letting her in even if the syllables are short and clipped. Letting her in as best he can, it seems like, and she doesn't know why—why he's doing it at all, why it's _her_. She's been riding a wave of triumph ever since the night she convinced him cause she thought—the why doesn't matter. Cause she thinks that if it did, he wouldn't be doing this at all. She doesn't think he even knows.

And maybe that's why. The not knowing, both at once. Walking blind into something together.

“Cause you're the only one who's never made me feel like I'm nothing.”

A tick goes by, and then another. The crickets continue their steady baseline of sound, noticeable only at times like this. The liminality in between. The place where their path could go left or right or cave a tunnel through time and space itself and there's nothing she can do but wait.

It's faint and hard to determine through the crickets, but she thinks she hears him swallow. Is thankful for the moon that tells her he's there, at least. That he hasn't left.

“I ain't a good person,” he says, quietly enough that she takes a step forward to be sure she hears.

“Why do you think that?”

She can see enough to know he's shaking his head. “I got stories to curl your hair, girl. Things...” He trails off and she chances another few steps forward in his distraction. “You trust too easy,” he says, cutting himself off. “That's why this is fucking happening.”

“This?”

He ignores her. She's close enough that she can feel his presence in front of her again and he doesn't move away.

“Never had no one trust me before.”

He says it so softly she could have imagined it, but she knows she didn't. And there go the tears pounding at the back of her skull again cause she never realized it before but thinks she could say the same.

Beth sucks in a deep breath and reaches for him. Is going for the crossbow strap but misjudges her aim in the dark, feels her fingertips skate across the hot skin of his bare arm before finding the edge of his shirt. She thinks about continuing to look for the strap but she doesn't. Curls her fingers in the fabric, the frayed remains of the sleeves tickling her palm as her knuckles press against his shoulder. The cotton is damp to the touch, but cool; sweat left over from the day, drying slow. Somehow it doesn't bother her. When he doesn't flinch away she takes the chance and moves until her toes align with his and she has to look up to find his face in the dark.

“I trust you,” she says. Tries not to put anything behind it. Doesn't shove it off the edge of her tongue, punch it towards him in a desperate bid to make him believe. Says it simple and true because it is. “And yeah, ok, maybe you aren't a good person. But right now you're good for me.” She laughs mirthlessly. “That's all I wanna care about right now. And this is my chance to be selfish, right? That's the reason I wanted to do this in the first place. So let me be selfish. Even if you think it's wrong or a bad choice or makes me some stupid little girl trying to keep believing in fairies or something. Please.”

Daryl stares down at her—she doesn't need the light of the moon to know, she can feel his gaze as surely as she feels his shoulder shifting under her fingers—and reaches up to cover the hand she has grasping his sleeve. She expects him to pull her away and she wouldn't resist if he did—but he doesn't. His fingers hover, curling a little to follow the lines of hers, and she realizes that he's holding her hand. In his way, at least. She tightens her grip and his follows until they really are skin to skin, his dry hand cupping the back of hers. She feels lightheaded and unsteady and very glad he's giving her something to hold onto.

After a few minutes of silence, though, he does take hold of her hand; moves it gently to the strap of his crossbow, waits until he's sure of her grip before dropping his arm. She bites her lip, senses him building himself up to something to say.

“Dead people're walking around,” he says. Shrugs. “Makes more sense to believe in fairies now than it did before.”

She releases a breath through her nose and the tension between them seems to relax. Beth becomes aware of her heart slowing down and realizes it must have been beating very fast.

She grins, moving around until she's at his side again so they can keep walking.

“You'll be my Tinkerbell, then,” she says, taking a step to follow his. “I'll get everyone to clap if you get hurt or something.”

“Thought you were the fairy,” he mutters, but without the anger or heat of before. “Orgasm dust, remember?”

Beth laughs and bumps her shoulder against his. Doesn't even think about it. The touch doesn't seem to bother him, so she files it away as something to do again. “That's cause I'm the fairy for everyone _else_. Some fairies help everyone but others are more shy, you know? It's like that. You're just for me.”

He grunts deep in his chest. It takes her a few moments to realize it's his version of a chuckle.

“Thank God for that,” he says. “Ain't letting no one else know my tent's on loan. Y'all'll start throwing ragers in there or something.”

“Nah, nothing like that. The strobe lights'd attract too many walkers. Maybe just a few tea parties.”

“You bring any fancy china shit out here and I'm breaking every piece of it.”

“Oh, so you're a _manly_ fairy. Ain't here for anything girly like _teacups_.”

“Damn straight.”

Beth giggles and bumps his shoulder again. This time, though, when she moves away he follows. Bumps her back. She turns her head to hide her smile.

They're quiet the rest of the way to the tent, Beth listening to the crickets and Daryl, she's sure, to whatever else is out there. As time passes she feels more and more relief that their shouting didn't attract any attention. There must not be any walkers in earshot. The night is gentle.

They reach the tent and Daryl repeats the ritual of the night before: crawling inside and lighting the lamp, exiting so she has room to enter. It looks exactly the same as it did last time. She doesn't know what could have changed in 24 hours, but it's strangely comforting to be somewhere that feels so static: where walkers don't roam and time doesn't exist and as she spreads the clean towel out before herself it could be this night or any other night and she would never know.

She realizes that she hasn't heard the zip of the tent and turns around, sees Daryl hovering at the entrance. She smiles at him and he does something with his mouth that she supposes he means as a form of reciprocation.

“Y'alright, then?” he asks softly.

“Yeah,” Beth says. “Thank you.”

“Quit thanking me,” Daryl says. The words are harsh but some of the bite has gone out of his voice, and she thinks that she likes how he sounds like this. Like a cat purring while it drags its paws across sandpaper.

“Not gonna happen,” Beth says softly. She sounds more serious than she thinks either of them expect her to. The light of the lamp plays against Daryl's darkening cheeks as he lowers his eyes. He begins to back away but that flush reminds Beth of something else she's been looking to say.

“Hey, Daryl?”

His head pops back into the tent; he does look a little annoyed now. “What?”

Beth draws in a breath, measures the intelligence of asking her question. Decides that nothing she's done in the past few days has been smart. Doesn't make any of it wrong, though.

“What you said to me... when we were shooting–”

Daryl's entire aspect freezes, and a wave of memory smacks Beth in the throat. She recognizes his body language from the time a rabid dog wandered onto the farm. She was the first to notice it stumbling through the grass; approached it without much consideration, thought it needed help. It noticed her the moment she got close enough to see the foam on its muzzle. It froze, just like Daryl, eyes locked on hers, powerful hind legs trembling. She was only 13 but she knew two things in that moment: just as surely as it would attack her if she made the wrong move, it was screaming inside; locked deep down underneath the disease and the mania, just a poor beast calling out for help.

Her daddy'd told her what to do if she came across a rabid animal, though, so she backed away slowly, closer and closer to the house until Mama noticed her odd behavior through the front window and yelled for Daddy to bring his rifle. He told Beth to look away when he shot it, and she did, but now she wishes she hadn't listened to him; had done the best she could to be with the dog in that final moment, help it find some measure of peace.

She pushes the memory away. Daryl isn't going to attack her, and he doesn't need her comfort, she doesn't think. She just wants to know.

Beth realizes that she's been quiet for too long, and clears her throat. Daryl jerks a little at the sound, but otherwise doesn't move.

“Right before I shot. You know. Something about how I knew what I was doing.” Daryl's pupils are shivering ever so slightly; she's looking hard enough at him to notice that. She feels like she should look away, try to appear less confrontational, but she realizes that she's lost the ability to move too. “What did you mean?”

Daryl stares at her, and she sees it again: even in the faint light, the tips of his ears darkening to a deep red.

“It just, it made me feel–“

“Nothing.” Beth blinks. The red has seeped from Daryl's ears into his cheeks but his body still hasn't moved. “Didn't mean nothing, just... was telling you how to shoot. Nothing else.”

“Oh. Okay. I was... wondering. If there was something else.”

“No,” Daryl says. Short. Clipped. Teeth snapping shut. He stares at Beth, the heated glare of a predator dancing in his eyes.

It's that intensity more than anything that tells her she shouldn’t entirely believe him, but she doesn't think she's ready to confront the full impact of that. Doesn't know exactly what that impact is herself. Only that her fingers are twitching against the floor of the tent and her knees longing to spread wide whether Daryl remains there or not.

That's what tells her he needs to leave.

“Okay,” she says softly.

He doesn't make any indication that he's heard; his glare remains on her, blinding, until he pulls himself out of the tent, closing the flap with a determined _zip_. Beth shivers at his passing and unlike the night before doesn't hesitate before leaning against Daryl's pack and working her hand beneath her pajama bottoms.

She's wetter than she expects to be. It makes her cheeks burn, but it doesn't make her stop either.

 


	7. We'll Never Be Satisfied

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You can never trust a quiet day at the end of the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you SO SO SO much to everyone who has been reading this story, and especially those who have been commenting. I'll try to go through and reply to as many of you as I can, one of these days.
> 
> We're getting closer to the shenanigans, I promise, we're getting there.
> 
> **Warnings for graphic descriptions of past gore, disparaging self-talk related to attempted suicide, and a brief PTSD-induced flashback.**

The inside of the house is stifling, so when Lori enlists Beth's help in peeling potatoes they set themselves up on the porch. The request shocks Beth a little; when she takes the potato peeler from Lori's hand she half-expects Maggie to leap from the shadows and chain her to the radiator or something. But if Lori notices Beth's surprise she doesn't show it; just sits down beside her and rucks up her sleeves and peels with an efficiency that forces Beth to scramble to keep up.

Unlike yesterday's gray skies, the sun is blinding today, and Beth is glad at least that she can be useful from the shade of the porch. Most of their party, Daryl included, left early in the morning for a run into town, so the farm is quieter than it's been in a long time. Beth lets herself soak that up at first; is grateful that Lori seems willing to do the same. They don't speak or look at each other as the potato skins fly between them and if Beth doesn't look at the woman at her side it could almost be a moment from the summer before: a sweaty day at the beginning of an endless summer, she and her mama peeling potatoes together.

Lori gives a short laugh, slicing through Beth's fantasy so fiercely that she jumps. The surprise makes a burst of anger bubble through her chest, but she suppresses it. Her mama being gone isn't Lori's fault. The world ending isn't either.

It would be so much easier for Beth if she had someone to blame.

“What's so funny?” Beth asks, voice soft and sweet, unbothered, curious like a child is curious and nothing more.

Lori shakes her head, flicking a bit of potato skin off her wrist.

“Sometimes I have a hard time believing all this,” she says.

Lori glances at Beth and Beth feels her stomach plummet. She knows that look. It's the way people look at her when they realize the words in their mouths might be dangerous to her. Like whatever they're about to say will be a half-truth at best.

Beth smiles pleasantly, cocking her head. “All what?”

Lori examines her for a beat longer, then comes to her decision and speaks. “Being here,” she says. She turns back to her peeling. “I grew up on a farm a little like this. It wasn't functional—my dad inherited the land and never saw a reason to sell it—but we had the porch and a barn and all of that.” Lori pauses in her peeling and snorts. “I hated the place back then. Thought it was cruel to force a kid to grow up so isolated.” She glances at Beth, her mouth quirked. “I was an only child. And this was before the internet. So I bet it was different for you.”

Beth shrugs, not looking at Lori as she answers. “I dunno. I never minded being alone. But maybe that's because Maggie and Shawn made people seem so annoying, I didn't wanna deal with more of them.”

Lori chuckles. “That makes sense.” She shakes her head. “Anyway. Went to college in the city. Rented an apartment till Rick and I could afford a house in the suburbs. It all worked the way I planned it. When I left for school I never expected to be back at my parents' place for longer than a visit.”

“And now you're on a porch peeling potatoes.”

Lori laughs. “Exactly.” Lori goes quiet again, but Beth can tell she's thinking. “I loved our neighborhood. The whole block was families with young kids, so Carl was always running around. Couldn't get him to stay in the house for more than a minute until we bought him an X-Box. Then he and his friends would never leave!”

Despite the clipped feeling to Lori's words, like she's being careful to censor as she goes, Beth finds herself smiling. She's never wanted to live in a place like that—has always imagined herself with enough kids that they could entertain each other—but it's easy to picture the Grimes family in that setting. Having potlucks with other households, watching the Super Bowl in whatever house had the biggest TV; not even needing to set up playdates because the kids were running in and out of each other's doors all the time. She bets Carl misses that most of all.

“I think that's why... _losing_ Sophia hit Carl so hard,” Lori says, as if she can hear Beth's thoughts. “After the Morales family left she was the only other kid with us. Now... well, I guess _you're_ the youngest after him.”

 _Jimmy's only a few months older than me_ , Beth thinks; and then, on its heels, _He didn't try to kill himself, did he? Of course she doesn't lump him in with the kids._

Beth grits her teeth, tightening her hold on the handle of her peeler so she doesn't say anything out loud.

It isn't Lori's fault.

“I think Carl'd rather play with Daddy's toolbox than help with the laundry,” Beth says instead.

Lori snorts. “True.”

She goes quiet, and Beth chances a peek at her out of the corner of her eye. Lori doesn't look at all like Beth's mama did. Lori's bones stand out more starkly against her skin and she's several inches taller, brown-haired while Annette was blonde. And she doesn't act much like Annette either. She loves her family more than life itself, Beth has no doubt; but that love is sharper, crafted meticulously after years of training and practice. Mama was younger than Daddy when they got married, but she wasn't young; wasn't all that young when she married Shawn's daddy either. And Beth thinks about Jimmy, about how everyone's thought since they were babies that they'd marry young; and she wonders, if Lori hadn't married right out of college—if she hadn't done it to run from her old family—if she'd even have chosen to be married at all.

But Lori loves Mr. Grimes, and she loves Carl. She wouldn't choose anything else now. Couldn't, cause that love is who she is, what she's built herself around.

 _You can't change the choices you make when you're young,_ Beth thinks, _cause by the time you're tired of them, and you want to, they're so deep inside you there's no other way to live._

Even as she thinks it Beth finds herself frowning, pausing in her peeling to look out across the farm at the green dot of Daryl's tent in the distance. Is _that_ something she's setting herself up to regret? Not that anything she's done yet feels like a choice on the magnitude of marriage, of taking a jagged piece of mirror to her wrist. It's all just... happened. She was tired and sad and Daryl said yes.

She hasn't chosen anything. It's _other_ people's choices she's sick of. When the time comes for her choice... she'll recognize it, at least. She hopes so.

Movement flickers at the edge of Beth's vision, and she turns towards where the drive disappears over the hill leading to the farm. Where before the view had been clear now dust is kicking up, swirling in agitated eddies through the air until the hood of a familiar blue truck punches through.

“They're back,” Beth says. Beth turns as Lori raises her head, brown eyes flicking across the horizon. Beth sees her shoulders tighten, her eyebrows scrunch, and Beth's stomach drops to her toes. “Lori?”

“They're going too fast,” Lori says, and Beth turns back to the road. The second vehicle the group took has appeared behind Daddy's truck, nearly riding the bumper as they race down the hill. When an arm emerges from the driver's-side window of the truck, waving frantically, Lori drops her potato and stands.

“Beth, get your dad,” Lori says, tension vibrating through in her throat.

Beth doesn't waste time asking questions; throws the potato skins off her lap and goes.

* * *

By the time she and Daddy burst back onto the porch, medical bag in his hand and water bottles and clean rags in hers, the cars have reached the driveway. They're parked haphazardly, dirt still rising like they'd only just skidded to a stop. Lori's racing from the driver's side of the truck towards the other vehicle as doors begin to open. Beth and her daddy both pause, taking in the scene.

Moments later Daddy's recovered and is hurrying down the steps but Beth remains frozen, feeling suddenly like she needs glasses. She can't make out anyone's features; sees only ripped clothing and streaks of dirt and bright blotches of red–

The motorcycle. Daryl took his motorcycle and it isn't with them.

“Beth!” Daddy barks, and Beth shakes her eyes clear.

She makes out Mr. Walsh slamming the driver's door of the SUV, face thunderous, before she's in the thick of it and there's nothing but sound everywhere. After so much quiet all day it makes Beth stumble; the overlapping voices and banging doors like gunshots and clothes she had cleaned with her own hands stained with black and brown and red and she can hear them, the walkers snarling and staggering towards her as the guns crack and crack–

A large hand closes around her bicep. She jerks, eyes flying up to see–

Daryl. It's Daryl, _Daryl_ , peering at her with concern.

“Y'alright, Greene?”

Beth thinks she collapses against him for a moment. She must, with the jelly in her legs and the furrowing of his brow and how solid and warm and _alive_ he feels against her...

It's that thought that gets her standing. He's alive— _they're_ alive, and now that she has his grip on her arm to filter the noise she takes another look at the people around her. She doesn't count in her head, there's too much movement for that, but by the expressions that range from angry to grim she can tell they didn't lose anyone, not yet at least; there's blood streaming from T-Dog's temple and Andrea's wrist is in a hastily made splint and Lori and Maggie are taking almost all of Glenn's weight as he sways pale-faced between them—but there are no bodies. That's what matters. No bodies and no bites and aside from Glenn and possibly T-Dog with his head wound nothing looks potentially life threatening.

Beth breathes out slowly, hoping it will calm her pounding heart, then turns back to Daryl and gasps.

“You're hurt,” she whispers. She doesn't know why she whispers; doesn't know why she says it at all, with the gash in his arm a foot long and oozing blood— _of course he's hurt, he doesn't need you to tell him, you dimwit—_ but Daryl doesn't seem to take exception; ignores her entirely, in fact, letting go of her only to try and take the water and rags from her arms.

Beth jerks away and, feeling a flush of confidence, snaps, “You're _hurt_. Stop that.”

Daryl looks just as surprised as she feels, but she pushes that away to deal with later. Daddy is peering into T-Dog's eyes, likely looking for signs of concussion; Maggie and Lori have gotten Glenn up the porch steps and through the door that Patricia holds open, Andrea following close behind. Mr. Grimes is leaning on the truck looking slightly shell-shocked while Mr. Walsh paces, mouth moving like he's talking to himself, hand rubbing his shaved head. Beth watches him a moment, feeling an uncomfortable prickling in her spine before stepping away from Daryl, walking up to Mr. Grimes.

“Mr. Grimes?” she says. He snaps back from wherever he went, standing up straight and looking down at her. “Can you take all this inside? Daddy's gonna need it for Glenn–”

“Yeah. Yeah,” Mr. Grimes says, seeming capable of nothing more as Beth transfers her load into his arms, keeping back one water bottle and a bundle of rags. He throws a look towards Mr. Walsh before heading for the house.

With all the bodies off the lawn, the farm returns to the calm of before; eerie now, with Mr. Walsh still pacing, blood spattered in the dirt.

But Beth allows herself the illusion as she goes back to Daryl and takes the wrist of his uninjured arm. She feels a strange tingle at the contact, remembers how his shoulder felt under her fingers last night, skin burning close to fever—but she shakes the memory away, tugging to get Daryl moving.

“Where we going?” he asks.

She nods towards the RV, most of its engine still strewn about the ground. “I'll patch you up over there. It'll be quieter than in the house.”

“Don't need no patching up,” Daryl grumbles, although he doesn't try to pull away from her. “I've survived worse than this.”

“Yeah, well, all it takes is one little bug and you got an infection and we gotta chop your arm off, so I think you ought'a just let me do this.”

When Daryl doesn't reply, Beth feels a flush rise through her cheeks. She doesn’t know where she got the audacity to say something like that, especially after her meltdown by the cars. And Daryl saw it. Asked Beth if _she_ was ok, after he and the rest of them had been... she doesn't know what happened to them, she realizes. And the scratch on Daryl's arm...

Beth comes to an abrupt stop, and only Daryl's quick reflexes—quick even with blood flooding from his body—stop them both from tumbling to the ground. Beth whirls around, grabbing the fingers of his injured arm and yanking it towards her. She ignores Daryl's hiss of pain.

“The fuck are you–“

“This wasn't a walker, was it?” Beth asks, eyes darting up and down the jagged gash before finding his gaze, still looking at her in perplexity. She's startled to feel tears pricking at her throat. “Daryl, if it's a walker we have to–“

“It wasn't a walker,” he says. Were he anyone else, she would suspect his tone as an attempt to be soothing. “Got caught on scrap metal or some shit when we were running. Didn't even notice till we were back in the cars and Rick said something.”

Beth's breath gushes out of her, sounding closer to a sob than she wants it to but the rush of relief she feels is strong enough that she can't find it in herself to care. She closes her eyes instead and drops her forehead against Daryl's chest, his fingers still clutched loosely in her hand. He goes stiff as a board at the contact, but she's known him long enough that it doesn't deter her.

 _Known him long enough?_ a voice in the back of Beth's mind whispers. _He barely even spoke to you until a few days ago._

 _Know him well enough then_ , another part of her rationalizes. But she doesn't know how that can be true either. He's gone _far_ out of his way to help her, and yeah, they've talked a little and fought a little and no one else around here treats her like he does, like she's strong enough to look at the world, and maybe even to be in it too...

Like maybe the scar on her wrist say as little about her ability to survive as the scar his cut will become will.

It's that thought that brings her back to herself, to the moment. She breathes in again—is shocked a little at how strongly his scent hits her, the shadow of which she smells every time she's in his tent but never so unfiltered, raw, thick with sweat and adrenaline and something that makes her want to press even closer, learn it more–

But he's stepping away and he isn't looking at her and she feels horribly like she's made a mistake, even if she can't fathom what it could be. He doesn't like being touched, she knows he doesn't like being touched, but she thought by now with her it might be ok...

“We gonna, uh, deal with this or what?”

And she feels like an idiot, because he's hurt and bleeding after a near-death experience she still knows nothing about and here she is, slipping in and out of the world like the useless little girl everyone thinks she is.

Beth is careful not to take another deep breath before turning around, letting his fingers slip from her grasp as she starts forward, heart pounding as she imagines the despair she'd feel if she were to reach the RV and he isn't with her.

But when she settles herself on the steps leading up to the door he's right at her side, dropping down next to her with a grunt and a wince as he twinges his injured arm. She doesn't let herself pause again; opens the water bottle and wets a corner of a rag, then takes hold of his arm and tuns it so she can gently begin wiping the blood away.

His shoulders tighten at the first touch against the raw wound, but he relaxes quickly, not even wincing when she has to press harder to get at blood that's already dried. When she's done the wound still looks ugly but not quite as scary; it's leaking blood at a sluggish pace but it doesn't seem to have gone too deep into the muscle. As long as it doesn't get infected he'll be fine.

“Okay,” she says softly. “I'm gonna have to stitch it up–“ She pauses when she sees the expression on his face. She frowns. “What?”

“Shouldn't your dad be doing that?”

She doesn't know if that should make her laugh or get her angry. She settles for something in the middle: rolling her eyes. “Just cause I don't have a degree doesn't mean my daddy's never let me stitch up one of his patients before.”

“Just one?” Daryl asks warily.

Beth huffs, a bit of lightness returning. Only the knowledge of the pain it would cause him keeps her from shoving at his arm. “Don't be a baby.” She stands, dropping the bloodied rag on the ground. “There's stuff in the RV, right?”

“Yeah. Above the driver's seat,” Daryl says. She's only taken a single step up the stairs before he adds, “Whiskey's under the sink.”

“With you doubting my abilities and all, I dunno if you deserve whiskey,” she retorts. Daryl snorts, and she's glad that she's out of his sight when a pleased blush bursts onto her face.

She finds what she needs quickly. The first aid kit is in actuality a suitcase stuffed with the combined contents of about five regular kits, packed in a haphazard tumble. There are only a few swigs left in the whiskey bottle and she debates leaving it—she doesn't remember seeing alcohol on the farm ever, and it makes her fingertips tingle to imagine breaking that unspoken rule, even by proxy—but she grabs it anyway, figuring it might go some way towards making her and Daryl square.

When she reopens the door to the RV, part of her is surprised to see that nothing has changed. Everyone else is either in the house or out of sight, and save the badly parked cars and the streaks of what she knows must be blood in the dirt, it's peaceful.

Daryl hasn't moved either. He's still sitting on the bottom step, looking towards the house and twirling an unlit cigarette between his fingers. He doesn't turn but she knows he knows she's there. In her imagination she sees the tip of his ear twitch, but in reality it's something more subtle than that. The way he's angled his body, maybe, his bloody arm a little closer to her than the other like he's preparing himself to face her quickly. She doesn't like it, she realizes; him sitting so tense, like she's something to be scared of.

And imagine that. Daryl Dixon scared of little old her.

No matter how absurd it sounds, though, she knows that on some level it's true.

She descends the creaky metal steps as quietly as she can, setting the suitcase on the step above them and wordlessly handing Daryl the whiskey. He grunts in acknowledgement, and a smile tugs at her mouth when he scowls at the meager contents.

“Someone's been fucking skimming,” he mutters.

“Maybe you drank more than you remember.”

His scowl deepens but otherwise he doesn't reply; undoes the top of the bottle while keeping the corner of his eye on her movements as she rummages through the suitcase. She grins in triumph when she finds a ziplock full of alcohol swabs and a surgical sewing kit just beneath it.

“Y'all really scavenged all you could, huh?”

When Beth turns back to Daryl, tools in hand, he has his head tipped back, lips wrapped around the mouth of his bottle. She only sees his throat bob in a swallow once, but he takes his time with it; she wonders if he's holding some of the whiskey on his tongue, trying to make it last longer. When he brings the bottle down his head follows, twisting the label towards himself as if it's fascinating reading material.

“Daryl?”

“Didn't scavenge nothing,” he says. “Was all Dale's.”

“Oh,” Beth says. She looks down at the items in her hands and feels a sudden burst of revulsion. She didn't see what happened to Dale, but she saw everyone's faces when they came back in without him. She wants to throw the ziplock across the lawn.

“Took the whole 'lone wanderer' thing real serious,” Daryl says. He isn't looking at her; probably didn't notice her reaction. He motions like he wants to take another drink but restrains himself, rolls the bottle between his hands instead. “Good for us. Had enough protein bars to feed an army. Never skimped on sharing them.”

“I didn't know him that well,” Beth says. “He seemed like a good person, though.”

“Look what it got him, huh?” Beth doesn't know if it's the adrenaline of whatever the group went through or the blood loss making him woozy, but the Daryl sitting beside her seems different than any of the ones she's spoken with so far. His shoulders are still tight but his face is slack, like he's removed a cardboard mask from in front of it and isn't used to holding the muscles on his own. Beth can't take her eyes away from that face.

“I shot him."

The declaration doesn't surprise her, even though she didn't know he did that. She's never really thought about Daryl killing _people_ ; walkers, yeah, but a person... now that she knows the distinction she can see the weight of that statement on his shoulders.

“Walker'd ripped his whole gut open,” he continues softly. “Was like fucking _Private Ryan_ ; had his intestines all bundled in his arms so they wouldn't fall out.” Daryl sniffs, looks at the sky. “Couldn't hold all of 'em, of course. Some of 'em'd torn, stuff... smelled that before anything else.” His voice is flat. “People usually shit their pants when they're dying. Lose control of the muscles. Didn't have to worry about that at least.”

“Daryl–“

“Rick couldn't do it so I did. Put him down. Nothing else to do.”

Beth notices then that Daryl's usually stone-still posture is swaying. She puts her hand flat on his arm, right below the cut. Blood quickly wells against her skin but she ignores it; focuses on Daryl's eyes that have snapped to hers at the contact.

“Had to do it,” he says.

“I know,” Beth says. “You did. It's good you did, he... he would'a suffered a lot more if you didn't.”

“Should kill all y'all, then, shouldn't I,” he says, voice like gravel. He nods at her. “Start with you?”

 _I don't want to be gutted_.

“I dunno,” Beth says, turning away from his burning eyes to open the ziplock bag in her lap, steady her shaking fingers. “Dale didn't have a way out. Nothing... nothing but pain, you know? Useless pain. Cause it'd never come to nothing. Even if he'd survived somehow.”

“Thought what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. Some shit like that.”

Beth's mouth twitches as she draws out a few alcohol swabs, careful not to take too many in case they'll need them in the future. “Some of it, I guess. But it's not... what makes you strong ain't the thing that does the killing. And if... if Dale was like you said, he was half walker already, right? All they are is pain.”

Daryl's brow furrows. “The fuck you mean? Walkers don't feel nothing.”

The ghosts of Mama's fingers clawing at Beth's arms press into her flesh. She rips open a swab and shoves them away.

“Just... think about it, right? All they do is wander around looking for stuff to eat. Doesn't matter what that stuff is, just... they're always hungry. They can eat and eat and eat and they'll never be satisfied. There's nothing to comfort them, nothing to take them away from that for a while. And... I think that's what makes people stronger in the end. Not surviving something awful, but seeing that the awful exists— _really_ seeing it. That nothing's gonna satisfy you either, but you learn ways to make it so that doesn't matter. Just a little. Just for a while.”

Beth lifts the swab and begins to dab at the wound. It takes her a few moments to realize that Daryl isn't flinching, even under the sting of alcohol. She turns her eyes to look at him and he's looking back so hard she almost topples over.

But she doesn't. Meets his gaze head-on as she cleans the rip in his skin; just resists the urge to raise her eyebrows at him, call him out on it. That would be too confrontational. For him, for this moment. So she settles for just looking at him, letting him see what he needs to see. Draw whatever he needs to from her because one thing Beth's beginning to learn about Daryl Dixon is that his loneliness isn't a choice, no matter how hard he tries to pretend it is. It isn't that he doesn't want to be part of them; he doesn't know how.

She wonders how he would react if she spoke those observations aloud. He'd probably start yelling at her, but she isn't scared of that. Not when he's had her alone all those times in the dark and never raised a finger against her. Not when he knows it's true and maybe that's one thing he doesn't want to be alone with anymore.

But she doesn't say anything. Neither of them do. She cleans him up and waits for him to take another few swallows of whiskey before using his lighter to sterilize the needle and begin working it through his flesh. Her stitches aren't as neat as Daddy's would be. The wound will scar. But Beth doesn't think Daryl worries about that either.

She winds a bandage from the suitcase around his bicep, trying hard not to notice the flex of his muscles beneath her hands as he twitches against the pressure. He stands the moment she ties it off, testing his arm's range of motion before looking down at her.

“Thanks,” he grunts.

A smile flickers across Beth's face, a pleased heat settling low in her spine.

“Anytime, Daryl.” Beth glances down and reaches for the whiskey, holding it up. “Wanna finish it? Probably a swallow or so left.”

Daryl's mouth twists, and he shrugs. “Nah. Farm's as dry as you say, might need it again.”

Beth's smile falters, and she nods, putting the bottle back down. “Yeah,” she says softly.

She packs up the first aid supplies and puts everything back where she found it, including the whiskey under the sink. When she reemerges from the RV she's surprised to see Daryl waiting for her, hands in his pockets as he stares at the ground.

Again, they don't say anything. His eyes flick to hers, and he turns to stride towards the house. She follows behind him without hurrying. Observes instead the muscles that tighten one by one beneath his shirt as he approaches the front door. By the time he reaches the porch he looks like the ragged vagabond that roared up to the farm that first day—distant, dangerous, untouchable.

He doesn't hold the door for her; not that she expects him to. Is almost glad of the reprieve the wood bouncing against her arm brings, a moment to breathe through the tension she knows is waiting inside the house.

It doesn't help when she notices the potatoes she and Lori abandoned on the porch. She almost goes to begin cleaning the mess, get the food out of the muggy heat before flies come and ruin all their work. But her eyes catch on the basket of peeled potatoes, the color and texture reminding her disturbingly of human flesh. A few of the vegetables are spotted with blood, already browning as it dries. Beth looks at her hands and notices for the first time how Daryl's blood has soaked into them too.

A shiver runs though her as she rubs her palms against her jeans; not enough to clean them, but it gives her the fortitude to finish opening the door to her home and continue inside.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're wondering, and you probably are, yes, I posted a chapter 8; but then I kept writing and found a much better place to put a chapter break, so I deleted what I put up last night. I'm not going to change anything in the part that was already uploaded; the chapter will just be much longer. I'll put it up later today. Sorry for any confusion!


	8. Stumbling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even the strongest connection can fracture in a moment, and with the house and its occupants' secrets closing in around her, Beth begins to wonder again if there's anything worth fighting for at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BEHOLD, THE REAL CHAPTER EIGHT!! Again, I'm so sorry for the confusion of posting a chapter and then deleting it. That's the dang trouble with publishing as you write; one day I think things are going the way I want them to, and then my brain throws a curveball. At least this one isn't too major: Nothing before the mid-chapter break has been changed, so if you remember what you read before and just want new content you can skip to there.
> 
> A heads-up, plot-wise: They never captured Randall in this universe (at least not yet; maybe I'll use him later, who knows), so anything I mention here that we learned about his group from the show you can assume that Tony and his buddy revealed to Rick in the bar before Rick killed them. I also haven't watched season two in a long long time so I'm playing fast and loose with canon anyway.
> 
>  **CHAPTER WARNINGS:** Non-graphic discussion of violence and the future possibility of sexual assault/slavery.

It isn't easy to give someone the silent treatment when you don't talk on a regular basis anyway, but with the way Daryl's acting, goddamnit, Beth is gonna try.

It isn't just Daryl, of course. Pretty much everyone is shying away from her as the long summer day dims slowly towards night. Not that she can tell how bright the sky is anymore. Andrea'd mentioned the windows—Beth tried to catch Daryl's eye when Andrea said it, wondering if he'd shared his concerns with her too, but he was turned so resolutely away from Beth that she couldn't even see the bridge of his nose—and lo and behold, everyone'd reacted like it was the best idea since sliced bread. Within an hour half of the attic floor'd been pried up and nailed into place, covering every window until even with the lights on Beth felt sunk into an oppressive gloom. It shouldn't've feel any different from nighttime, but it did.

Even on the darkest nights, Beth supposes, with the most clouds and no cities to throw their smoky luminescence into the sky, there is light out there. Somewhere.

Or maybe trying to look outside and being met each time with flat wood makes her feel claustrophobic. Either explanation is as likely as the other.

It almost makes her want to laugh, the fact that the reanimated dead weren't enough to scare the group into taking precautions, but living people are.

She knows it's people even though no one will talk to her about it, even though they go silent when they notice her in the room. Daddy sent her in to check on Glenn while he was busy sewing up T, and she might not be the strongest or the bravest but she can recognize a bullet wound when she sees one. Went right through the front of Glenn's thigh, missed the femur and whizzed out the back. It must have missed the artery too or he would have bled out in the car, but even with that luck, he bled plenty. If he hadn't been able to mumble his blood type before he passed out—if Patricia weren't a match—he could be gone now. People did that.

But Beth ain't supposed to know that, no, not fragile little Beth. When Maggie found Beth wiping some fresh blood away from Glenn's bullet wound, she hustled Beth out of there like she'd caught him naked or something. Even Daryl played pretend, when she passed him and Carol arguing in the hallway. She didn't catch anything they said and Carol's face and body language were blank when she saw Beth approaching, but Daryl couldn't hide so easily; his shoulders went high and his cheeks red and his hands clenched into fists.

At some point he must have ripped his stitches cause blood was spreading in a thickening line across his bandage, but Beth didn't say anything; didn't offer to mend the tear or change the dressing. She suspended her step a tick longer than necessary, waiting to see if he at least would look at her with some frankness—but no. He'd put his eyes on his feet and kept them there like someone'd tied them down.

That was when Beth decided he deserves some punishment. Even if no one knows it's happening except for her. It's the principle of the thing.

She's busy punishing him and attempting to bleach the blood out of a bundle of rags—multitasking, multitasking is good—when she hears footsteps approaching and looks up to see Jimmy. She doesn't pause in her washing—or in ignoring Daryl, no matter she doesn't know where he is—but she does acknowledge Jimmy with a smile.

No matter that it feels more like a grimace. No matter no matter no matter.

“Hey,” he says, and after a pause she feels a light pressure on the small of her back. She doesn't tense, not quite, not enough for him to notice, but her heart kicks up a few steps and her chest tightens even further.

“Hey,” she says. She doesn't put in the effort needed to make her voice anything but flat. The thundercloud the group's been keeping over her head in the hours since their return has her weighed down from the rain it's put in her clothes and she doesn't have the energy left to care what Jimmy thinks about her state of mind. Hell, this is probably what he expects, what they all expect. That she'll shut down. That she's scared.

She's just sick of turning every corner in this house and finding a guilty face on the other side.

She continues scrubbing the rags between her hands, the pinkish water flowing down the sink a sharp contrast to the bright yellow rubber of her gloves. Mama used to use gloves like these when she did dishes, but since she died everyone's fallen out of that practice; no sense in protecting skin already callused and dirt-cracked and sunburned to oblivion. They won't be able to use this pair around food anymore, anyway. The yellow is already dulling, from the bleach or the blood or both. Designated blood-grinding gloves, now.

Beth feels Jimmy's eyes on her. If he were someone else, she'd think he's taking in her expression and her posture and how violent her movements have become since he arrived. If he were someone else, he might take the hint and walk away. But of course he doesn't. He opens his mouth and, as she's gotten so used to lately, he says exactly the wrong thing.

“You don't have to do that,” Jimmy says. Beth doesn't respond except for a tightening in her shoulders. She doubts he notices that either. “Why don't you take a break–“

“Glenn's still bleeding through his bandages and we don't have enough sterile dressing to keep replacing it so often,” she says.

She doesn't count Dale's stockpile amongst their supplies. It's stupid, maybe. She has the sense that Daryl, and now herself, are the only ones who know it exists. If ( _when_ , her heart whispers _, when_ ) they have to run, the suitcase will probably get left behind.

But she doesn't think it's her information to give, and besides, with knowledge of those extra dressings, what use would her scrubbing rags be? There are so many people and only so many tasks. There's nothing else for her to do. Nothing they'd _let_ her do, even though just the act of keeping her feet in one place on the floor is making her want to scream.

She wants to be running in and out of rooms like Maggie is, hurried but not frantic; purposeful. Wants to be out with Daryl and Mr. Grimes and Mr. Walsh ripping up the fences from around the pasture, sharpening them and driving them into the ground in a ring around the house, barbed wire caught on their tips and sparkling in the sun. Not that she can see them through the boarded-up windows, of course, but she can hear them, even over the running water: saws on wood and masculine grunts as they drive the stakes into the earth.

Maybe Beth isn't strong enough for any of that. Maybe there's a reason why the uninjured men with the biggest muscles have taken up the task. But she doesn't care if she were to rip a tendon and become another casualty. At least then she would have shed some of the lightning rushing beneath her skin.

“You're more important, Beth.”

Beth slams the rags down into the sink, causing Jimmy to jump back as red-tinted water splashes everywhere; Beth sees the speckles on her shirt but they hardly register.

She closes the tap and spins around. The sounds from outside are louder now, easier to hear, and they grate on her ears like they're her own bones being sharpened.

“More important than _what_ , exactly?” she asks, glaring into Jimmy's astonished eyes. “I just told you. Glenn hasn't stopped bleeding. If we run out of clean supplies we could all die. How the hell am I, me, _any of us_ , more important than that?”

“No one is going to die–“

“Liar.” She rips her gloves off violently, throwing them onto the counter with a resounding slap. More bloody water flies off of them, spattering the cabinets. Jimmy is staring at her, looking a little bit afraid, and in a different moment she might feel bad about it; might feel scared of herself too. But the entire world is out there looking to hurt them and it's supposed to be obvious to everyone but her. “You even know what happened on that run? Cause no one's told me. I have some idea but no one's told me. That doesn't make me feel all that _important_.”

“Why do you even want to know?” Jimmy asks. “You're safe here–“

“No one is _safe_!” Beth says, stepping closer and she realizes she's shouting and he's so confused and she doesn't give a flying _shit_. “After our families, after Sophia and Dale, after _today_ , how can you expect me to believe that? You think I'm gonna be safe when everything that's out there comes for us? You think covering my ears and doing laundry and pretending the world isn't looking to swallow us is gonna _matter_?”

“I just want you to be happy,” Jimmy whispers.

He speaks so softly that Beth's fury takes a pause. She feels a spike of contrition. She's being unfair. She's taking out all her helplessness and frustration on someone who's never committed a malicious act in his life. It isn't Jimmy's fault that he cares for her, that he worries; her wrist still sports the evidence of the last time she saw the world for what it is. And no matter that he wasn't there for her then he's trying to make up for it now. That should mean something, shouldn't it?

But frustrated tears still rise to Beth's eyes. He should know. They should all know. This house is more dangerous to her than all the walkers in the world put together.

“And I wanna be alive,” Beth says. “Not just living, _alive_. As alive as you or Maggie or anyone else. And I can't do that if–“

Something flashes in the corner of Beth's vision and she turns and Daryl is standing in the doorway to the kitchen.

Beth feels her mama's voice rising in her breast because he's filthy, covered head to toe in dirt and tracking it all through the house. Even his once-pristine bandage is stained close to brown, the spots over the leaking blood almost black. His crossbow is the only clean thing about him, strap gripped tight in his hand as he looks between them, eyes narrowed.

“The fuck's going on here?” he asks.

Beth opens her mouth, forgetting her choice of punishment in favor of telling him to mind his business, but Jimmy speaks first.

“Nothing,” he says, shifting as if to put himself between Beth and Daryl. As if, once again, to protect her. “Beth's tired–“

“I'm not _tired–_ ”

“–and I was asking if she needs help.”

“I don't,” Beth mutters. _Not from you_.

Daryl's eyes settle on Beth and she feels goosebumps rise on her arms. She clenches her fists, turning back towards the sink and pulling the gloves back on. It takes longer than it should, the way her hands are shaking, but she manages it and re-opens the tap and picks up the rags, working the bundle like she had been before, like nothing has happened.

And finally, finally, Jimmy takes the hint: After a few moments of her ignoring him she hears him exit the kitchen.

She knows Daryl could leave and she'd never know it, but the prickling in her spine tells her he's still there, still watching her. And despite her anger at him, at them, at everyone, she feels the fury in her gut deflate and wants suddenly, desperately, to be sitting on the steps of the RV with him again, talking about... talking about the truth. About Dale's guts in the moonlight and the stench of half-digested food rising from his dying body. About being strong. About being strong and Daryl knowing she's talking about herself too.

That was only a few hours ago. A few hours and he's back to treating her like everyone else does. And she can take it from Jimmy, that look of concern and pity in his eyes, but not from Daryl. Not from him.

“You need something?” she asks, hoping he doesn't hear how thick her throat has suddenly become but, again, knowing he does.

There's a pause, and she almost turns. Almost lets him see what he would see in her. She knows it would be something. She knows it would have meaning.

“Nah,” he says, and she feels a fog begin to roll in over her mind. “Heard shouting. Wanted to be sure y'all weren't killing each other.”

“What's it matter if we were?” Beth mutters. “I'm tired, remember. Jimmy'd've won and nobody would've lost anything.”

Daryl sucks in a breath like he's about to speak—but he doesn't. Lets the kitchen fill again with the sounds of running water, of rags squelching between Beth's hands, of Mr. Grimes and Mr. Walsh's work filtering in from outside.

Tears prick at the back of her eyes and she wants so badly to drop the bundle of bloody rags and collapse into the sink, forehead balanced on the edge and Daryl… Daryl would come up behind her and do what Jimmy had tried. Press his hand, so much larger, into her spine; read her shuddering and slide that hand around her waist, follow it with the other, stand hunched over her with his hands connected over her stomach and his chest warm against her back, too warm in the summer heat but she wouldn’t mind; wouldn’t mind because of the _life_ pounding in that fire, the pulse of his heart instead of the inertia of muggy air.

Her legs tremble with the ferocity of this wanting even as she keeps her head high, spine straight. She wonders if he sees it. She wonders if he knows, and god, if he knows…

What does he think she’s using his tent for?

“Daryl,” she says, turning, “do you –“

She trails off, staring at the empty kitchen. Even his dirty boot prints on the floor are swallowed by all the rest.

* * *

The group retires before sunset that night. She can’t say she’s surprised, the day they’ve all had. Is a bit taken aback by her daddy’s lack of comment when Maggie vanishes into Glenn’s room and turns the lock, but after some consideration Beth decides that he’s lost enough blood that there ain’t much trouble they could get up to anyway.

For once Beth doesn’t bother with the pretense of sleeping. Doesn’t go to her room for a change of clothes or even a towel before heading out to the porch.

She pauses with her palm still against the wood and one foot outside, her eyes drawn to the quickly darkening sky. The house was built to watch the sunrise, all the bedrooms and their large windows facing the drive, but with the acres of fields and the expanse of sky the plains create she feels like she can the sunset too. That last bit of light is still arcing from behind the house, throwing bands of clouds into deep shadow, painting the sky with dusky tiger stripes. Or with scars. She supposes it’s up to the moment to decide which sight she sees first.

The one figure in the foreground draws her eyes; not due to movement, but some kind of unconscious expectancy that she doesn’t fully understand.

“You’re early,” she says, stepping forward and letting the door close behind herself. Daryl glances at her over his shoulder, then looks back out at the view. Beth’s eyes roam across his broad torso and shaggy hair and she wonders how many people he’s trusted enough to turn his back to. “Didn’t think you’d be here at all, really.”

“You seemed in the mood to do something stupid,” he says, voice muffled by his turned away face and usual mumble.

Beth snorts softly, stepping up beside him. Both his hands are resting on the railing, and although she doesn’t look at his face yet she mirrors him. “Could say that of anyone in this house,” she says.

He’s quiet for a long time, and she thinks he’s planning on ignoring her like he has been all day until he says, very softly, “It’s different.”

Beth scrunches her nose, leans on her forearms. “What, cause I’m the only one who doesn’t know what’s going on?”

“You ain’t that stupid,” Daryl says. Beth surprises herself by laughing, and when she looks at Daryl out of the corner of her eye, there’s a hint of a smirk on his mouth. “You know what went down.”

“Why’d you treat me like all the others do, then?” she asks. She can feel his eyes on her but she doesn’t reciprocate. Beth’s throat feels scratchy, and she clears it. “You know me so well, you should’a known how that’d make me feel.”

Again, Daryl doesn’t reply. When Beth looks at him he’s facing away from her again, a scrunch in his brow. She blows out a gust of angry air.

“And I _don’t_ know what happened. Not really. All I know is y’all came tearing back here like a rabid dog’s on your tail, all shot up and covered in blood and it’s my job to fix it.”

“Ain’t your job, Beth.”

“What else am I supposed to do?”

Daryl is quiet again. He glances up at the sky. As they’ve been talking, it's reached true dusk. A night breeze is building. He pushes off from the railing and jerks his head at her.

“Let’s go.”

For the first time it’s light enough that Beth doesn’t need to hold onto Daryl to know where they’re going, but she still sticks close to him; close enough that their arms brush as they walk. She expects Daryl to move away but he doesn’t; presses closer, even, his bandage scratchy against her shoulder.

Anyone looking out one of the front-facing windows would be able to see them. Beth knows the risk they’re taking by going out with the sun barely out of the sky, but the worry sits at the back of her mind. It’s nice enough to just be outside, stretching her legs to keep up with Daryl’s longer strides, a breeze unbothered by boarded up windows tickling the hairs against her neck. Daryl doesn’t seem overly-anxious either; is alert as he always is, maybe even more so, but he never glances back towards the house, never gives any indication that he’s worried about discovery.

His eyes scan the treeline instead. He could have been doing that every night and Beth wouldn’t have seen because of the dark, but she remembers what he said about knowing a walker’s near; hearing it, smelling it. No reason for his eyes then, with creatures so clumsy.

Beth tries to stay alert too, she really does, but her mind drifts. Across how angry she’s been today, no matter how blessed they were not to lose anyone, no matter how safe she was the whole time while the others put their lives on the line. She doesn’t feel shame for it—the time for that has passed—but she wonders for the first time if any of them resent her. If Daryl does. It doesn’t sting as much as the thought of their pity but it does make her wonder if she’s been going about this all wrong. If their recalcitrance around her is a cover for something deeper.

“What happened, then?” Beth asks.

She keeps her voice hushed because she thinks Daryl would prefer it, and also because she's a little out of breath from trying to keep up with him. Without her restraining grip on his crossbow he isn't slowing himself down at all. Before all this that wouldn't have mattered—Beth wasn't on the track team but some of her best friends were and she liked running laps with them, could almost keep up sometimes—but she's spent so much time in the house. She can't remember the last time she ran just for the joy of it. She wonders fleetingly what Daryl would do if she set off now; racing him to the tent, because she knows it would turn into a race, or at least a companionable sprint. He wouldn't let her get too far away.

He glances back at her now and must realize her predicament, for he slows until they fall into step. Beth feels the urge to reach out and hold onto him, but she doesn't know if the impulse is born of habit or apprehensionabout what he's about to tell her. She looks at his bandage on the way to his eyes and her heart is pounding from more than the exercise now.

“Went on a run into town,” Daryl says, voice as hushed as hers. “Rick wanted to see if people'd missed any back rooms or basements when they were scavenging.” Daryl goes quiet, his lip giving a small twitch. “Shane thought it was a dumb-ass idea. Should be going farther out, hitting up the mall and shit. Made damn sure we all knew he wasn't happy.”

Beth's own lip twists. She knows what Mr. Walsh is like when he wants to make a point.

“Who did you agree with?” Beth asks.

Daryl shrugs. “We ain't hurting here. Better to stay close, save the gas for when we need it. Think part of it was Shane trying to rile Rick up, anyway.”

“So...”

“Was quiet for a while. Didn't find much, but we hadn't been there long.” Daryl shifts his crossbow on his shoulder. “Then there's a shot and Glenn goes down and all hell breaks loose.”

“Lord,” Beth says.

“We were lucky. Happened when we were at the cars, so we had cover, didn't have to move Glenn too much.”

Beth frowns. “What happened to the rest of you, then? If you were at the cars, you could'a just left–“

“Couldn't let 'em find the farm,” Daryl says.

Beth blinks at him. She's quiet for a few steps, acutely aware of the knife in her boot. “So you stayed and... finished them off?”

“Many as we could,” Daryl says, either not noticing her unease or choosing to ignore it. “They scattered pretty quick when we went after 'em. Didn't seem to have many guns, at least, or didn't want to use them. 'S why no one else got shot. T and Andrea getting jumped's when we got the hell out of there.” Daryl hefts his injured arm, glancing at her. His smirk is clearly forced this time. “It's T's fault I got this. Me and Rick trying to drag his big ass back to the car, wasn't looking where I was going.”

He might be trying to lighten the mood with that comment, in his way, but the tension in Beth's neck doesn't abate. She knows he notices, for they lapse into an awkward silence after that. All the more awkward for how easy silence usually is between them.

“How many people did y'all kill?” Beth asks softly.

Daryl shrugs. “Maybe four. Drove around for a while after to confuse 'em if any of them followed.”

“But don't you think...” Beth trails off, looking at her moving feet. It's dark enough by now that it's difficult to discern the details of her sneakers, how they bend the grass, but she feels Daryl's eyes on her face and she knows he can see enough to judge her. How naive she's about to sound. But she doesn't stop. “What if it was a mistake? Them shooting Glenn?” She looks at him. She can just make out the shape of his face, turned towards her but unreadable. “They could have been as scared as you were–“

“We've run into them before.”

Beth stops walking. Daryl joins her in the same step, turning his body slightly to face her.

“What?” Beth says. “No one said–“

“Was when you were sick,” Daryl says. He eyes her for a moment, then continues. “Whole place was a fucking mess. Your dad pissed off to a bar in town and Rick and Glenn went looking for him. Ran into two assholes seemed mighty interested in where we were holing up, who... who we had with us.”

Beth shakes her head. “Who we have...”

“Women,” Daryl responds bluntly. Beth feels her throat start to close. “Got a big group, they said, but no women.” She hears the _tap-tap_ of blunt nails against his crossbow strap. “Rick killed them, but he knew there's more out there.” Daryl looks at the ground, speaks barely above a whisper. “They can't find the farm.”

Beth knows she should be frightened—of these mysterious men, or of Rick, for doing something she didn't think him capable of—or pissed that they've all been hiding this from her. But she can't take her eyes from Daryl. The sag of his shoulders, like these threats on top of threats are weighing them down, and the cut of his eyes saying... saying being here with her, maybe, makes them all heavier.

And that's the last thing she wants.

“You won't let them,” she says resolutely. He raises his head, brow scrunched. “And you'll kill them if they do. All of them.”

Daryl stares at her, thumb moving absently against his crossbow strap. “And that don't bother you?”

Beth feels a pang in her chest, and she follows it; walks up to him, walks close, close enough that she has to tip her head back to see him. He shifts on his feet but he doesn't retreat. She sees the effort it takes for him to meet her eyes, and when he manages to it makes her feel absurdly proud.

It's harder now to make out his face but she still can, even if it's mostly by following the shadows shaping it. She thinks once again how absurd her anger toward him was today. After what he told her by the RV, what she can surmise from it; the way he talked about Dale, about being the one to kill him. The responsibility nobody wanted, that wasn't even his to begin with. The memories he gave her of the moment, which could have just been a focus on the gore, the sensationalization of it all, but... it isn't that. She knows it isn't. It was the indignity such a dignified man was forced to face in the end. Lying there with his guts open to the sky, for a moment Beth imagines Daryl...

His eyebrows draw together at her sharp intake of breath but she breaks his gaze before he says anything, looking instead at the hollow at the base of his throat. It's too dark to tell for sure but she doesn't think she's imagining the fluttering pulse she sees there, dancing beneath his skin. And she remembers what she felt in the kitchen, wanting to be wrapped up in him; this man that she's barely touched, who doesn't seem much inclined to touch her, but she feels touched by him anyway. Maybe it's the attention he gives her that no one else does, the consideration, the... dignity. She feels like she has some dignity with him and that isn't a feeling she's ever felt in her life.

And she knows without a doubt that Daryl would die for her. Die for all of them, protecting this place that he never wanted to be a part of. And the thought of that makes her feel filled and warm and buoyant even as she wants to cry from fear of it ever coming to that. Fear of any of them dying—of Daddy and Maggie and Jimmy and Patricia, who she's loved all her life—and Daryl. The rest of them too but Daryl first. And part of the reason for that is he _would_ be the first. Without question.

She doesn't care what these horrible men might do to her and the others. Well, she _cares_ , of course she does; she would never wish those fates on anyone, least of all people she loves, or feels affection for. But she thinks of Daryl dying to save them from that and it isn't worth it. Isn't worth it at all.

She was so scared when she took that mirror to her wrist; so scared, but clear-headed too, more clear-headed than she'd ever been in her life. She knew the risks they took by staying alive. She didn't think of this, not directly—it was walkers, walkers, walkers even when people have been committing atrocities for millennia before the first walker even rose—but it was there. Always is for someone like her. Small and meek and too naive by far. But if it happened, if they got ahold of her... she'd still be alive. She'd be in the world, and as long as she was there she knows Daryl would be too. And no matter the horrors and degradation she'd face... that might make it ok. Knowing a man like him exists even in all this ugliness. That a man who wanted nothing more than to run away stayed anyway; who mourned a kind old man and helped a broken thing like her...

As long as that remains, no matter what she suffers, she could find her way back. She knows she could.

She's been quiet for far too long, but he hasn't said anything either; breathes deeply and evenly as she stares at his throat and the blood thrumming just beyond her sight.

“As long as it's them and not you,” she says. She bites her lip, tries to use the pain to push the tears back down her throat.

“You mean us?”

When she thinks she's in control of herself she looks up. He looks so confused, eyes darting between hers like he could tug her intentions out of her like they're attached to a string, if only he could find a free end to grasp. And even then they might fray and collapse before he could pull them fully free. But he wants to try— _needs_ to try, she thinks as she takes in the urgency of his gaze—and she doesn't know how they got here by crossing the same patch of grass half a dozen times, hardly knows where _here_ is, but she's so glad they found it. And she's been glad of so little in the past few months.

“Yeah,” she says, taking on him what she imagines is pity. “Yeah, us.”

He stares at her a few more moments—she can practically hear his mind racing behind his eyes—then clears his throat and steps back. Just one step but it feels like a chasm between them and Beth hasn't been afraid of the dark for a long time but for a heartbeat she's terrified.

“Ought'a keep going,” he says. “You still wanna do this.”

“Yeah,” she says. Her cheeks burst into flame but she keeps her head high. “Yeah, I do.”

“Okay, then.” He hesitates, then returns to her side, walks beside her again as they continue across the grass.

She stumbles, once, across an uneven patch of ground that neither of them notice. His hand doesn't go to her arm to steady her, but the small of her back. It is only there a moment, lingering until he's sure she's upright again and then gone as if all it was, was a way to catch her.

And maybe it was. But she turns into the dark and smiles all the same.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Even if you left a review on what I posted before, I'd love to hear from you again so I can respond properly :)


	9. The Deluge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Despite the very real danger stalking the farm, being alone in Daryl's tent so far from the house doesn't worry Beth at all. He's looking out for her, see. No matter what, she knows he'll keep her safe.
> 
> This, of course, could be the start of a new problem for both of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to start this chapter by thanking everyone who has been reading, but especially those who have been leaving thoughtful comments. I learn so much from all of you.
> 
> We're getting closer to Beth-on-Daryl sexy times, I promise. For now, though, continue to enjoy Beth-on-Beth sexy times. The girl deserves it.
> 
> The chapter title was inspired by [this painting](http://www.tate.org.uk/art/artworks/danby-the-deluge-t01337). Partly cause I'm trying to stick somewhat to a Bible theme but also I want this as a floor to ceiling mural on my wall.

Beth doesn't wait for Daryl to perform his customary ritual; this time, upon reaching that circle of packed dirt, she drops to her knees herself, unzips the tent, and crawls inside.

It's darker than she expected it to be, the only light coming from the flap fluttering behind her, and it takes her a bit of fumbling to find the lantern. Eventually she gets it, illuminating the space with the meagre lamp turned way down low.

She turns and isn't surprised to see Daryl crouching at the entrance to the tent, flap held open with one finger as he watches her through shadowed eyes. She shoots him a small smile. What exactly for, she doesn't know. But after a day of blood and secrets and imminent violence, there's something comforting about him in this moment. Still dirty from fortifying the farm all afternoon—she doesn't think he really cleaned up at all, except maybe dragging a wet rag across his face and hands—and she likes that. It's different. Everyone else in the house takes advantage of their running water; hell, Beth does too, no matter the pang of guilt she feels when she sees her father's furrowed brow when he comes back from checking the wells. They're all dirtier than they would have kept themselves in the old world, but after a day like this, she doubts many of them went to sleep without at least dunking their heads in the sink.

But even as she partakes in it, Beth knows it's a lie. A vestige of times never returning; clinging to their “humanity” like the concept, millennia old, is wrapped up in how much dirt they wear on their skin. Whenever she sees someone emerging from a bathroom with wet hair, she thinks about the days following her suicide attempt; when she only bathed when Maggie forced her to, or Daddy guilted her into it. She knows they did it for her own good; has read plenty on the Internet asserting that the first step towards healing could be as simple as washing the dried sweat from one's skin. But even as she remained trapped in her own head, in her house, in her bed, she felt liberated; like some veil had been lifted from her eyes and for the first time in her life she could _see_.

The kind of healing that showers aid needs to be maintained; by structure, by routine, by security. All of which could vanish in a moment. She washes because they want her to, and because it _does_ feel good. But those days lying in her own filth did more than even seeing her mama shot in the head could to show her the reality of things. Fighting the entropy of a universe defined by decay is not a battle any one of them is made to win.

Maybe this was always true. Maybe it's only more true now. But seeing the streaks of dirt on Daryl's face, his cheeks marbled by soil ground into his skin... it's raw, crystalline. And true. He isn't denying anything. The world will fall apart and he'll fall with it and as long as he holds her hand as he does she thinks she might end up ok.

So she smiles at him, at his lank hair and stained skin and the honest way he looks back at her; at the smile that, just for a moment, tugs at his lips.

Then his expression hardens and the moment is gone, even as the harsh pounding of her heart clings to it.

“Imma stay close tonight,” he says. His voice drops into a mumble. “Closer than usual.”

“In case those men come looking?”

“Yeah,” he says. “I don't think they will, not so soon, but... this is the first place they'd check, they're looking to kill someone.”

Beth snorts softly. “That makes me feel better.”

“You don't gotta worry,” he says. She said what she said in jest, but she doesn't think she's ever heard his voice filled with so much conviction. “I'll hear those sons of bitches long before they get here. They ain't touching you.” His voice cracks a little on the last sentence and she's glad it makes him look away; she isn't confident in what exactly he'd find on her own face. “So you don't... don't think about it. This time's for you, right? They ain't touching that either.”

“Thank you, Daryl,” Beth whispers.

She wants to touch him. Press her fingers into his palm, or twine their hands together. Brush his hair back from his face so his eyes aren’t such a mystery to her. Help him feel some of what she's feeling; taken care of, and listened to, and something else. Something else.

He vanishes before she can do anything, though. Doesn't even zip the tent before he goes. She waits a few moments to see if he'll remember and come back, but he doesn't. So she attends to it herself; drawing the zipper up and up, something in the sound of snagging plastic making her shiver.

She turns back to the interior of his tent and immediately feels her heart begin to pound. She realizes what's missing. She didn't stop in her room before coming out. She's still in the tight shorts she's worn throughout the day, too uncomfortable to do what she's here to do. And she doesn't have a towel.

She stares at Daryl's sleeping bag, laid out like it always is: an offering, or an invitation. But that means more than usual tonight.

She could resist it. Do nothing, wait for the hour to end and for him to come back. She could take a nap, maybe; get some rest without Carol's snores keeping her from reaching anything but a shallow sleep.

But she won't do any of that. She knows she won't. Because here she's honest.

She glances around as if doing so could give her a clue to Daryl's location, then crawls forward until she's sitting on the sleeping bag. Shucks her shoes and socks and then, with a deep breath, undoes her shorts and drags them and her panties down her legs.

Even without a breeze, it's a few degrees colder in the tent than it is outside, and she feels that cool between her legs like a physical touch. She squeezes her thighs together to keep a shiver from running through her whole body and only succeeds in realizing that she's already wet; not soaked, but enough that she feels her inner thighs sliding against each other. She has to consciously resist lifting herself up to see if she's spotted the sleeping bag yet; knows that doing so will accomplish nothing but make her even more self-conscious. She's gonna get wetter anyway.

She hooks her hands around her knees and looks down at herself: the bump of her lower stomach, the beginning of her pubic hair, the top of her slit. A sight only she has ever seen, and never like this. A glance down as she showers, usually; the most memorable, the night she came home from her sex-ed teacher telling them all to grab a mirror and find out what they look like. Humming with the anxiety of doing something illicit, she used the first mirror she could get her hands on: her mama's compact, stolen out of her purse. Beth locked herself in her room and tried to hold the mirror between her legs; found that inadequate and put it on the floor, squatted over it, used her hands to push and pull at the sticky folds, try and find the magical place that so many people wrote songs and innuendos about.

All she saw then was a mess of flesh that bore some resemblance to the pictures she peeked at in her textbook. It meant nothing more than that, and she remembers being so disappointed as she struggled to stand up straight, wrinkled her nose at the stickiness on her fingers, ran to the bathroom to wash them before returning her mama's compact.

She hasn't looked at herself like that since, and sitting in Daryl's tent, dripping silently onto his sleeping bag, she thinks that's for the best. It felt voyeuristic, like she was looking at a part of herself that hadn't given consent, that didn't have the agency to look back.

Many years later when she touched herself for the first time she didn't look at all—lay under the sheets with her hand inside her pajamas and panties, glancing at her bedroom door every few minutes even though _she_ could barely hear the video she had playing, it was turned so low—and that was different. Not so clinical when the smell wasn't just on her fingertips but all around her, when she touched herself between her legs and it felt like hands were touching her everywhere. Not so disconnected, then. Part of something bigger. Something raw.

Beth flushes deeply as she leans back against Daryl's pack and lets her legs fall open.

She can see a little now: her lips gaping open, not quite far enough for her clit to peek out. But far enough. She drifts her fingers through the hair for a few moments, takes a deep breath before pressing deeper.

A whimper pushes through her throat at the wet she encounters, pooled behind her clit even before she swirls a finger back further, gathering the wet on her fingertip and dragging it forward. She already feels tension in her stomach; her clit is sensitive to the touch, and it takes a few passes before she can touch it with any level of conviction without flinching.

She takes a deep breath and tips her head back, forgets about seeing herself and starts to _feel._ Without fabric stretching around her knuckles she feels dangerously exposed, and something about that vulnerability sends little shivers through her. Even more-so because she knows any kind of fear is false. Daryl's out there, looking after her. Her circling fingers speed up and she can picture him, even; his back to a tree, hand tense around his crossbow as he uses the other to smoke, eyes darting through the dark like he can part the night through sheer will, hardly breathing as he listens for footsteps in the distance, as he listens...

Another whimper rolls across Beth's tongue, louder, but the noise barely registers; she stretches her legs out farther, bare toes digging into the floor of the tent as she grips a breast with her free hand. Somehow this bit of flesh that has always seemed so inadequate feels perfect in her palm, delicate like the folds between her legs as she strokes them, fingers moving across the slick membrane with no effort or thought. She doesn't just feel relaxed or even simply good, frissons of pleasure running beneath her skin; she feels _sexy_. Her long gangly limbs and barely-there breasts, but they _are_ there; she's holding one in her hand, rolling her palm against the nipple with the same rhythm her hips are using to rock up into her hand and as her eyes open to slits she can almost see Daryl crouching at the entrance of the tent.

He isn't there; she knows he isn't, knows it even as her cunt pulses and the muscles of her thighs spasm and her eyes slam shut again. He isn't there but she _feels_ him there, like he's abandoned his body smoking against a tree to come watch her, crawling into the tent and directly into her pussy and her hips snap as she imagines him opening the tent without warning to check on her, just to check on her, and there's nowhere to look before this: her pussy wide open, hole gasping, nothing hidden or clenched or concealed. All of her, _all of her_ , so much more than she knew existed, all of it open to him and her and they see it together and it's the first time for both of them. And it's dangerous, so dangerous; not like dodging bullets or knives but it _feels_ like a knife, twisting through her insides and scraping the wet off her walls to send it all tumbling from between her legs.

She's thinking, see. Not about Jimmy. Not about Jimmy at all. The hands keeping her thighs spread are too large for that, the tongue pushing inside her mouth full of too much intent; not necessarily practiced, but ravenous. Not like a teenage boy stumbling towards his own orgasm but like a man, a man practically seizing her by the throat with his teeth as he kisses down her windpipe, like she's something to devour, like the embrace of the night is less about his dick and all about pulling her inside himself. Both of them opening to it even as it's her legs that spread, her hamstrings straining to fit him between them, he's so broad; no anxiety at all as alien fingers push inside her, as his hot breath licks her skin like a hungry wolf's would, as his weight pushes her into the ground and even though she can barely move she feels more unbound than she ever has in her life.

She thinks it would be like that. She thinks _he_ would be.

She's rubbing herself with intent now, some instinct keeping her fingers away from her entrance even as she feels her inner muscles clenching, looking for something to squeeze around, hold tight and close, and little by little something inside her is breaking open. Each jolt of electricity is coming faster and faster until they blend into a wave that doesn't begin or end even as it crashes against her shores, slamming into her body like a punch that finally, finally pushes her fingers back and deep, two at once and then three, her other hand descending from her breast to keep the rhythm constant on her clit as the squelch of her cunt joins her voice in the tent, echoing off the walls and her convulsing throat as mindless sounds burst from it, meaningless snippets of speech and whines that don't mean anything, anything at all, pushed into the world as the wall she's built around herself cracks open and she comes screaming.

It isn't a scream, really; starts too deep inside her for that, but it's as loud as one, and she can still hear it echoing through the air as she collapses backwards, legs still splayed obscenely, the hands between her thighs wet up to the wrists. Helpless little whimpers burst from her with each breath as her whole body trembles from her cunt outwards; she can barely manage to pull her fingers out of herself, her limbs are shaking so bad.

Where before she could barely keep her lids up, now her eyes feel stuck wide open; are glued to the ceiling of the tent as she lays her wet hands against her stomach, under her shirt, far enough up that she could be dressed below. Could be covered and decent and modest and everything she's supposed to be.

Her cunt shudders, twinges of aftershock. She finds herself smiling. Squeezes her legs together for a few moments, enjoys the twinge in her hamstrings and the pressure on her clit before spreading them again. Feels acutely the way the air moves through her lungs; imagines nerves lining the membranes that carry oxygen into her bloodstream. Keep her heart beating.

Many minutes later she struggles to her elbows and then fully upright, leaning heavily on her hands as she looks around. Slowly the world comes back. Trickles in like droplets: shifting shadows as a breeze presses into the tent's walls; crickets singing, hardly muted by the nylon; the smell of the woods and summer winds and something musty...

Beth's smile fades and she looks down.

She doesn't even have to scoot her body backwards to see it. Between her spread legs, under her thighs and ass—a shadow of all other shadows, still spreading as her cum trickles out of her and all over Daryl's sleeping bag.

Beth's throat twists. She almost starts coughing but she can't move, can't breathe, can't–

 _She's marked him_.

Beth rolls to her knees, not looking at the evidence behind her as she scrambles for her underwear and shorts and boots, wanting desperately to wipe some of the excess moisture from between her legs but finding nothing to use. Nothing that isn't Daryl's, she's where he _lives_ , by god, she's taken his offer of safety and come all over it...

She won't follow that thought through. What else she could come on. She _won't_.

Once Beth has her shorts up and buttoned with shaky hands, she sits on her knees, hands clenched on top of her thighs. She doesn't look at the sleeping bag. Thinks maybe, maybe it will dry. Most sleeping bags, the good ones, are liquid-resistant, right? There's no reason it won't all be gone by the time he gets back...

She realizes that she never looked at the watch. Doesn't even know when to expect him. Or to expect him at all; for all she knows, those men could have come, could have killed him. He could have cried out for help and she never would have heard, not with how deeply she'd sunk within her own body, her everyday senses eschewed by everything emerging from inside of her...

Except the sounds. And that thought is the one that makes her want the earth to swallow her whole.

She was loud. She was _loud_. The memory isn't clear, but it's there, like shadows dancing across exposed film. The evidence of her scratchy throat. How much quieter the world seems now by comparison, save her heart still pounding in her ears. Not loud enough for them to hear her from the house, surely, but Daryl...

She nearly leaps out of her skin when the front of the tent punches in like it's a door being knocked on. She rolls to get her feet under her, landing in a crouch that allows her to reach inside her boot, grip the hilt of Daryl's knife. She stares at the entrance, lips pressed together. Daryl would know to announce himself; has done that every time she's come here. But if it's someone checking the tent for walkers, or a living occupant–

“Beth?”

All of the air gushes out of Beth's body as she releases the knife, realizes with shock that her hand is trembling. She scrambles forward, hopes the purposeful motion will calm her down, and unzips the tent as quickly as she can.

Daryl appears before her, his broad body hulking. She's blocking most of the lantern light coming from inside the tent and it's hard to see his face, but she's looked at him so often in the dark she has no doubt who it is.

“Lord, you nearly gave me a heart attack,” she says, moving aside so she isn't in his way. Daryl doesn't come inside like she expects him too. He remains crouched exactly where he is, except now that she isn't in front of the lamp she can better make out his expression. She can't read it, and he isn't meeting her eyes; neither of which is unnatural when it comes to him, but after the fright he gave her she feels almost angry. The least he could do is give her some damn _affection–_

She zips herself up tight at that thought. Doesn't let it continue. They didn't say anything about affection when they struck this deal of theirs. Comfort... no. He doesn't owe her anything.

“Everything ok?” she finally manages to ask, looking away when his eyes flick to hers. “Out there?”

“Yeah,” he grunts. “Didn't see nothing.”

“Good,” she says. It comes out as a whisper.

“Gonna get going then?”

She doesn't say anything; reaches back to turn off the lantern before crawling towards him.

Without the lamp he's vanished into darkness again, but not completely. She is still aware of his outline as he moves aside for her, although more slowly than she expects. There's a single moment when she's close enough to feel his breath on her face. She looks up out of reflex but he's retreating before she quite manages it, rising to his feet, looming above her.

In that moment, though, there was a smaller one, when she caught his face from the corner of her eye. It's dark and her eyes are already hazy with fatigue and her mind still not quite right after the dramas of the day, so she doesn't know, doesn't put much stock in it, rises along with him and grips his crossbow strap and follows him silently towards the house.

Just her fantasies running wild, like they always do. But in that moment inside a moment, she could swear she saw his nostrils flare.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe I haven't promo'ed this before, but the glorious [nikitajobson](http://nikitajobson.tumblr.com/post/159878250406/missing-pages-by-schwoozie) created an illustration for this fic and it's the most amazing thing I've ever seen. Give her love.
> 
> If you want to give _me_ love, you can find me at [sail-not-drift](sail-not-drift.tumblr.com) on Tumblr :).


	10. Better Than I Am

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whether things are changing between Beth and Daryl or not, in the light of day Beth can't let herself think about them. Not much anyway. She has to keep her wits about her. There are walkers out there, violent men, and most dangerous of all: an older sister who Beth can't let look too closely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title borrowed from "I Am Changing" from _Dreamgirls_.
> 
> **Warnings for gory, suicide attempt-related dream imagery, and memories of men objectifying underaged women.**

He's avoiding her again but she isn't angry. No, not this time. She's relieved, really, to be able to go about her day and see him only from the corner of her eye; enough to send a jolt through her muscles but not to make her collapse.

She wants to collapse. Feels stretched like an old rubber band, limp and useless— _fucked out_ , the back of her mind supplies, which is ridiculous because she wasn't even fucked... she fucked herself, maybe, but it had nothing to do with him—but, inexplicably, the others notice her distress, and when the others notice, they pretend to understand. _I know yesterday was stressful_ , Lori says, putting her arm around Beth's tense shoulders. _There's no reason you shouldn't take a break. No reason at all_.

It's no less condescending than any of the other times they've said such things to her, but for the first time she's gratefulfor it. She tells Lori that she can climb up on the roof, keep an eye out, still be useful at least; and even though she isn't supposed to know there's anything to keep an eye out _for_ , Lori practically pushes her towards Dale's RV, says there's a pair of binoculars in the backpack by the mini-fridge and really, why did no one think of the roof sooner?

Beth thought of it because of how many times she'd woken in the summer to Maggie crawling across the slats outside Beth's open window, doing a terrible job of keeping quiet even when she was sober.

The first time it happened Beth hurried downstairs, half-curious and half-frightened of what her sister could be hiding. One peek out the front window was enough to see Maggie dropping down from the eaves and taking the hand of the boy waiting there, yanking him in for a kiss before pulling him into the night.

This was a few months after the incident with the birth control and the pond, and Beth had grown enough in that time to know that she didn't know much about what Maggie was doing but maybe it'd be better to keep it that way. She wasn't ready to face the magnitude of a man and a woman's entwined hands, even less so when one of those hands belonged to her sister. So instead of storming after them she let the lace curtain fall back into place and turned around and went to bed. She never followed Maggie downstairs again.

When she found the wherewithal to think on those episodes with less emotion, Beth couldn't understand the stupidity that possessed her sister to meet those boys where a flick of a switch would turn on the porch light and illuminate their embrace like a spotlight. Beth wasn't brave like Maggie, never brave enough to do something like sneak out at night to meet a boy. But when she thought about how she'd do it, it was always with a mind towards being more careful than Maggie.

She doesn't examine why she's thinking about this now. Especially when her chosen method of meeting men (a man) at night has involved strolling right out the front fricking door.

She snorts softly to herself as she reclines against the slats next to her bedroom window, a water bottle and tube of sunscreen next to her as she holds the binoculars to her eyes, scans the horizon. She feels like a character from one of the books she loved as a child: a boy who turned into a hawk, a red-tailed hawk. He could never truly be with his human friends anymore, but he could fly, and he could _see_ ; see forever, to the curve of the Earth and beyond. And if he wanted he could go there. Didn't have much left to leave behind.

She wonders what Daryl would see if he were looking through these binoculars. Surely more than she does: a still and silent tree line, swaying a little in a breeze that isn't quite reaching her. She doesn't put the binoculars down while she takes a few sips from her water bottle. She's been up here long enough she figures it's probably about time to put on more sunscreen, but even though she knows she needs it—she's never tanned in her life without burning first, and while she knows with a resigned cynicism that she likely won't live long enough for melanoma to kill her, she would prefer not to faint again, even if it's from something as mundane as sun poisoning—part of her balks at the idea. It's why she didn't bring a hat or sunglasses, no matter how much more comfortable they would make her. Comfortable is the problem.

She remembers just last summer, the trip she took with her friends to the Keys. Resting on a lounge chair with her sensible bottoms and padded bikini top—she didn't share her friends' interest in catching boys, not with Jimmy at home, but that doesn't mean she didn't enjoy the feeling of a flush spreading across her face, tipping her hat down to cover it when she felt men looking—she spent hours upon hours reading the books that weighed down her suitcase, her sensitive upper body in the shade but the sun tingling warm like tickling fingers on her stomach and legs.

They all came home with sunburns and peeling skin, but she was better off than the others. Her friends spent their time frolicking in the water and _really_ sunbathing. Kathy took her top off and didn't bother to flip onto her stomach or even find a secluded spot. Lay in the middle of the beach on a swell in the sand, large breasts—at least Beth thought them large—rising into the air, nipples puckered by the caress of the sea breeze. Kathy was only 15 but that didn't stop her. The men who'd stop strolling the beach to stare at her certainly didn't either.

Kathy never took them up on their offers beyond letting them buy drinks for her. But it still bothered Beth, deeply, that her friend would behave with such brazenness.

Beth didn't realize until later that what she was feeling was jealousy. She couldn't imagine being so comfortable in her body that she would expose it to a world of strangers; being brave enough to find men staring and stare right back. Challenge them to either look away or do something about it; to man up and pay for the privilege of being allowed to gaze upon such beauty.

Beth looks at her gangly legs stretched out before her. They're strong, she knows they are; she gets caught up sometimes in tracing the contours of her thighs, feeling the roping muscle beneath her fingertips. Taken all together, though, they still look gawkish; too long for her frame and falling into odd configurations when she sits, knees pressed together and feet splayed like some newly hatched chicken.

She reaches a hand out to touch her thigh and the flash of the white bandage on her wrist stops her. It's getting a bit dirty now. She knows the cut is healed and there's no need to keep the bandage on when she doesn't actually need it in the first place, but she still can't bring herself to take it off for good. Even if there are less obtrusive ways to hide the scar; even if the very act of hiding it makes her look even more beholden to it.

But she's come to appreciate the constrictive press of the bandage. Appreciates it especially much the nights when she trips from the edge of sleep to the feeling that she's back in that bathroom but this time she's slit herself all the way down to the elbow, down to the bone; flaps of flesh hanging open like an autopsied torso, blood gushing out as she tries to use her other hand to hold herself together, but it's too small, far too small, and there's already more blood on the bathroom floor than one body can contain...

She's snapped from her thoughts by the sound of movement behind her, inside her room. She drops the binoculars to her lap and stares at her window, entire body tense. She isn't in danger from whoever's inside, and every room in the house has basically become a public space anyway, but it still feels like a violation.

She expects them to grab whatever they're looking for and leave, but then footsteps approach and several moments later Maggie pokes her head out the window, looks one way and then the next until her eyes land on Beth.

For a moment the sisters stare at each other. Beth feels like it's been a long time since she last saw Maggie. Saw her in more than flashes at least, and she wonders if part of that is she simply doesn't want to look. Beth remembers the moment in the chicken coop several days before—has it only been a few days?—when she was on the edge of another breakdown and Maggie appeared and Beth zipped herself up again. Saw in her sister's eyes how many other eyes are on her, how carefully she has to step if she's ever going to become more than Jimmy's girlfriend, Daddy's baby girl, Maggie's little sister. Saw in them too the building acceptance that one day she'll walk into Beth's bathroom and this time it will be too late.

But today Maggie looks as tired as Beth has been feeling, and Beth suspects that she came up here for a similar reason to Beth's. Not as a way to be useful—Maggie has plenty of ways to do that—but to sit inches from the open air and dream about launching herself into it.

Beth gives a small nod and almost smiles when she sees the relief on Maggie's face. Maggie climbs out of the window, crouching as Beth scootches over enough to give her room. Maggie settles next to her, mirrors Beth's posture by looping her arms loosely around her knees. Beth considers offering Maggie some sunscreen, but decides against it. Maggie isn't as fair as she is. She's never gotten burned in her life.

“How's Glenn doing?” Beth asks, partly to keep the conversation away from her but also because she genuinely wants to know. She likes Glenn. He reminds her of some of her male friends from high school, even if the context of their relationship is so different: Clever and a little awkward and the kind of boy who befriends groups of girls without thinking much of it, doesn't feel all that weird when the jocks tease him because he knows he'd never fit in with those meatheads anyway.

There are other things, though, things she never would have known if she met him in high school. He's loyal, and feels deeply, almost too deeply; he and Maggie met bare weeks ago but Beth already knows it would take a heard of grasping walkers to pull him from her side. Not because of obsession or delusions of already being in the middle of some grand love story, but because that's who he is: He always comes back. Even if his and Maggie's affair fizzles out, even if she flaunts some other relationship to piss him off because she's her and that's what she does, It wouldn't make him care about her any less.

Beth feels a pang of emptiness when she thinks about that. Thinks about how Maggie doesn't seem to have a single problem with being MaggieandGlenn. Thinks about her sister and all the guys she's flirted with and hooked up with—stories that Beth used to listen to rapturously, eyes wide as Maggie spoke and smirked and pulled down her shirt to show Beth the hickies on her collarbone—and how it repulsed Beth to think of so many uncaring hands on her even as her gut clenched and she squeezed her legs tight around a feeling she didn't quite understand yet.

She wonders what Maggie thinks about Daryl. Not DarylandBeth— _because there isn't one, jesus, Greene_ —but just Daryl. Whether she still sees him as the loud and dirty ne'er-do-well they all saw him as when he first arrived. Or whether that's changed. If Maggie's seen the respect that Glenn has for him, that Mr. Grimes has for him, and realizes that he's more than he might have seemed as an acquaintance in high school too.

Beth wonders, very quietly, what Maggie might do if Beth came into her room one day and showed off some hickies of her own.

Beth chokes at the thought, just managing to reduce it to a spasm in her throat, and realizes that Maggie's answered her question and Beth didn’t catch a single word of it.

“S-sorry,” Beth interrupts Maggie mid-word. “I wasn't–, can you repeat that? I was thinking of something else.”

Maggie frowns, but thankfully doesn't comment further; just sighs, ruffling the back of her short hair to unstick it from her neck.

“He's ok,” Maggie says. A bit of tension leaves her shoulders and she sighs. “Dad says he's gonna be fine. He's in a lot of pain, though. He always argues when I try to give him meds so he can _sleep_ at least.”

“I bet you set him straight.”

Maggie looks at Beth, surprise on her face like she didn't expect such teasing words to come from Beth's mouth. But then she smirks, shrugging smugly.

“Men are idiots. Once you know that you can convince them to do basically anything.”

Beth can't keep her thoughts from flicking to Daryl, what he's been doing for her. She didn't make him do any of it. She doesn't think she did. And he might be an idiot about some things but he isn't stupid, not at all.

But she could manipulate him. They're at the point where she could. Maybe she's been manipulating him all along and just never realized it. Maybe what she's interpreted as him being kind was just him being unable to say no.

She's had any number of unkind thoughts in the past few months, but the thought of taking advantage of Daryl like that—taking what she knows of him and twisting it into a commodity, a means to an end—it causes a wave of nausea to sweep though her. She swallows convulsively, hoping Maggie doesn't notice her distress... or the way she shifts in her seat, remembering how vividly she had felt his hands on her the night before. Even if he didn't even _do_ anything, even if it was just in her mind... was that just another way of using him? Using his tent, using his senses to lead her there and back safely, the reckless thrill she feels whenever she thinks of him sleeping in his cum-soaked sleeping bag...

She feels more powerful than she ever has, thinking like this. And it's terrifying, because she gets the sense that people have had power over Daryl for his whole life, and if he _knows_ she's taking advantage, any kind of advantage... would he even think to stop her?

She doesn't want that. Even if it were for his own good, she doesn't. He makes her feel stronger but that can't be at his expense. He doesn't deserve that.

_Can't they be stronger together?_

“What about you?” Maggie asks, voice overly gentle, and Beth's head snaps around so she can look at her, eyes wide. She can't know... “How's Jimmy holding up?”

Beth's short-lived relief flushes out and frustration rushes in to replace it. She doesn't want to talk about Jimmy.

“I don't know,” she says, syllables clipped. “We haven't talked much lately. When we do it's always about me.”

“You don't like that?”

 _My ego isn't as weak as yours is_ , Beth thinks, but she bites her tongue—literally bites it—to keep the words from jumping out. She doesn't want to fight, or to be cruel. Maggie looks so tired.

“No,” Beth says, voice as soft as she can make it. “He's always looking for ways to take care of me. But it's not... that's not his job.”

“He's your boyfriend–“

“It isn't anyone's,” Beth says. She doesn't try to sound soft anymore. She takes a breath and looks Maggie straight on, pushes past the instant guilt she feels at the confusion on her sister's face. “Taking care of people, it isn't... it isn't an obligation cause of who everyone says you are to someone. You take care of people because... because they ask for it, and cause you _want_ to. Not cause you think you _should_.”

“Jimmy likes you, Beth. He really does. He just wants you to be happy.”

A few days ago Beth might have shrugged off the conversation. Might have tried to be non-confrontational, stolid, a girl who doesn't make messes. But what she feels rising in her chest, she doesn't stop.

“I already told you, Mags. We aren't _married_. We dated for a few months and now it's like he's my keeper or something.” Beth takes a deep breath. “Whatever you think I need him for, I don't. He couldn't give it to me anyway. Not him.”

Maggie frowns. “If not him, then–“

“Me!” Beth says. She feels tears pricking at her throat and she looks away, bites her lip. This isn't about keeping her and Daryl quiet. Not just. “If anything happened to you and Daddy...”

“It won't,” Maggie says.

“You don’t know that,” Beth says. Maggie is staring at her like she's never seen her before. Even after what Beth said to her in her bedroom, she doesn't get it. “If everything falls apart again, but even worse this time, if there's nobody left... I need to know that I'll still be here. That just cause I'm alone doesn't mean I'm not _here_.” Beth swallows and reaches for her sister's hand. Maggie's grip is limp but Beth squeezes tight enough for both of them. “I love you, Maggie, but I'm not what you think I am. I'm not.”

Maggie shakes her head, lost. “What are you then?”

_Cum on his sleeping bag. Her scent in the air, all the morepronounced because it's mixed with his. Closing her eyes and touching herself and feeling for the first time in months like she's waking up._

“I told you,” Beth says, looking back towards the woods. “I'm here.”

 


	11. Exult with Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's another night and Beth's thinking too much. About home, about darkness, about God; about herself and about Daryl, and how much closer they could get.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has some of the best prose I've written recently (in my opinion at least), so I'm really proud of it. I hope you like it too :3
> 
> **Warning for dark thoughts and some _very_ dark imagery, again centered on Beth's suicide attempt.**

Beth waits until a safer hour this time, returning to the routine of feigning sleep until she can feel the house rising and falling with the others' slumber.

It's an odd feeling. For so long it was just the five of them—then the three, and the four, when Jimmy came—and she's still getting used to living in a house full to bursting. Or maybe not quite there yet. It's a big house. She didn't truly understand that until Mama and Shawn died and Beth felt like she was in some Gothic mansion that seemed to grow with every step she took, where she could wander the corridors for miles and miles and not encounter another living soul.

Sitting in Shawn's bedroom after they'd both gone, looking around at the pictures he'd taken during his semester abroad and blown up into posters. Seeing with her own eyes the immensity of a universe that she had only ever glanced at before, obscured by sunglasses and blinded by the sun.

One picture Shawn took in Peru, in the rainforest. Beth had never paid much attention to it; preferred the shots of the Yumbilla Falls and birds soaring over a lush landscape. But the afternoon he died, when she sat in his room on the bed where he first taught her how to hold a guitar—made up lyrics on the spot that he could sing along to her stilted “Chopsticks”—she couldn't look away.

He'd found an angle where it looked like the trees were growing in perfect parallel rows, like the tree-lined roads she knew from British period movies. But no one planted this forest. No one designed it with photographers or painters or laughing aristocrats in mind. It was a row of trees bordering an invisible road that at its end melted into a maw of foliage, like the view down the throat of a great beast. The way the shadows wrapped made it feel like the viewer was inside the creature as well; Noah in the whale's mouth, gnashing teeth above and oblivion below, always on the edge of tipping, falling, dragging himself with an urgency he couldn't understand towards the end of the path. To see how far it led. To see if he could press on with only his bare hands, or if he would need a machete to hack his way through.

Maggie found her after several hours. Night had fallen and Beth hadn't turned the light on. Beth didn't notice. Didn't question darkness building as the canopy closed in around her and a deeper, infinite darkness lay several steps away.

There's so much of the world she hasn't seen. Will never see. Never _would_ have seen, even if life had stayed the way it was. But her home, she thought she knew. Even after it emptied a little and seemed so much more vast, she knew it; the sound of the foundations settling at night, the smell of old wood from the floors and walls, the flow of air from one room to the next. It's always been alive, but alive like an oak tree is alive: steady and stolid and standing forever still.

Now, staring at the ceiling and counting out a final minute in her head, Beth feels like she really is living in the mouth of a beast; large and lumbering, the heartbeats of over a dozen bodies pounding through its veins.

When she at last runs out of numbers, Beth slips from the bed to grab her boots, double-checking the knife strapped inside. Even with the windows bordered up she can tell the night is chilly, but she doesn't take a sweater, and her eyes slide without pausing past the dresser where her towels are tucked away.

It isn't conscious, the decision to carry only her shoes out the door and down the stairs to the first floor, but she isn't anxious. Feels wrapped in a strange calm; lulled, maybe, by the house's heartbeat finally matching hers.

Daryl might have avoided her during the day but he isn't hiding now; is standing at the railing when Beth passes through the front door, closing it and the screen behind herself. He throws her a glance, but doesn't linger long enough to catch the smile she sends him; he sees it's her, then turns right back towards the horizon she'd been watching all day.

“Hey,” she says. He grunts in response, and her forehead creases. He's a terse man, yes, but usually, lately, he has words for _her_. “Everything ok?”

He glances at her again, longer this time.

“Yeah.”

He ducks his head, letting it hang between his shoulders with his arms braced on the railing. From behind it looks like he's been decapitated, only the eternal clench of his muscles keeping him standing.

Beth pushes that image to the back of her mind and approaches him slowly. There were no crises today, not that she's aware of. It was quiet, quiet like it had been when they thought they were alone here at the end of the world. The most Beth had seen from her perch on the roof was a single walker at the treeline, wandering in and out of the woods like an embroidery needle.

It put something sick in her gut, seeing one so close, but one walker didn't feel worth the effort of raising an immediate alarm. She mentioned it to Mr. Grimes when Patricia called them all down for dinner, but he seemed to take it as she had: gave a heavy, resigned sigh and told her as long as it didn't stray far from the woods it wasn't anything to worry about. Beth thought privately that maybe it's good to have walkers in the woods with people out there looking to do them harm—a decidedly un-natural natural defense system—but she didn't voice it aloud. She isn't supposed to know about the human threat, much less be considering ways to combat it. And Mr. Grimes looked so burdened already, she didn't want to put fresh worries into his mind.

She's not sure if Daryl looks worried, but he looks _something_ ; won't look at her, for one, still staring down at the railing, his fingers sliding across the wood like he's looking to catch splinters. She wants to reach out and stop him but she doesn't know how much of that is from concern and how much is just wanting to touch him.

 _And what's wrong with that?_ she thinks, looking at him sidelong. _We're friends. At least, he's my friend. Friends touch._

But she looks at her own hands, the fingers she had inside herself the night before, the vision of his hands taking their place. Not that they ever would. She knows what he's like when people touch him. Even when she touches him. He doesn't like it and that's fine, it's who he is, even if the glances he throws her seem to bear something like pleading inside them.

Pleading for what, she wouldn't know unless she asks him. And the plea could be for her not to ask.

She talks instead. Maybe that way he'll come to her on his own.

“I talked with Maggie today.”

She pauses, not sure if he even cares; feels a bit weak with relief when he makes a prompting noise in his throat, asking her to go on.

“I feel like it's been ages,” she says. She crosses her arms under her breasts, hugging herself against the night's chill. “You know, us. Just talking. Not her looking sorry for me or telling me what to do.”

“Maybe you ain't letting her tell you what to do anymore.”

Beth looks up and Daryl is staring straight at her, eyes hot. She fights the blush his gaze sends through her cheeks and down her chest, keeping her eyes on his with all her might.

“That'd be a nice change.”

Daryl shrugs, the motion running through his entire body. “Don't think anyone could get in your way, you really want something.”

A laugh bursts from Beth's throat, but when Daryl turns his face away from her she sobers quickly, biting her lip. With only a moment's hesitation she steps closer to him, close as they've ever been in the dark, pressing their shoulders together and winding her arm under his elbow, twisting it back up to rest her hand on top of his on the railing. He stiffens, then glances at her... and slowly he relaxes. He seems reluctant about doing so, but he does.

“I think I need to talk to Jimmy.”

And there he goes tensing up again, but she doesn't let herself react to it; just wiggles her fingers until they slide between his.

“'Bout what?” he grunts. His body hums with nervous energy but he didn't resist her fingers pushing between his. Curls his a little to make it easier for her, and that makes her sternum pulse in a way she almost understands.

“Ending things,” Beth says. “Ending them for real, I mean. I'm just...” Beth sighs and leans the side of her head against Daryl's shoulder. His chin brushes her forehead when he turns to look down at her. “Maggie tried to talk to me about him but I'm so sick of hearing it. _He just wants you to be happy_. You know how many times people've told me that? How many times _he's_ told me that? But just cause he wants it doesn't mean it works. And wanting someone to be happy doesn't mean you want _them_.”

Daryl makes a noise that sounds like a strangled chuckle. “Damn girl, you're starting to sound like a grown-up.”

“How would you know?” she teases.

The chuckle that emerges this time is more genuine. She smiles, turns her head a little so he can feel it against the skin of his arm.

“I've said it,” she says, “but I haven't _said_ it. And maybe that's all the proof I need that we don't belong together. If he knew me like he should he would know.” Beth goes quiet for a moment, looks down at her hand linked with Daryl's. “I think I've outgrown him,” she says softly.

Daryl swallows—she can hear it, feel it in the way his body shifts—and she wonders if there are things he's been trying to tell her without telling her too.

The thought doesn't make her feel frustrated like it would with Jimmy. It makes her feel like she's holding a flower in her hand, a secret, waiting for it to bloom.

“Can't imagine the two of you ever being the same,” he says. She looks up at him and he quickly looks away, across the fields. “I mean, I don't know him like you do. Way I see it, he's just an uppity kid, thinks cause he's tall and he gotta shave once a week it makes him a man.”

“And I'm part of that, right?” Beth says quietly. “Can't be a man without a girl on your arm, huh?”

“'S what most people think, I guess,” Daryl mumbles.

Beth rests her chin against his shoulder. He can't doubt she's looking at him now. She wants him to look at her but the muscles of his neck are tight like he's trying not to.

“And what d'you think, Daryl Dixon?”

Daryl breathes in deeply through his nose, angles his head in a way that turns his cheekbone into a sharp line against the sky. Beth wants to trace it with her fingers but she doesn't want to cede the perfect place she's found tucked into his side. She's holding his hand but their bodies are holding each others', melting together from shoulder to ribs to thighs. She didn't know people could fit like this.

It scares her. But not enough to make her move.

“I dunno,” he says. “Don't understand most people, anyway.”

She knows he's evading her question, but she decides to let it be. For now. Until he accepts that she knows him well enough that he can say what he means.

* * *

They don't make any verbal decision to start out towards the tent; one moment they're standing together and the next they're untangling. The cold rushes into the vacated space at Beth's side and she shivers, rubbing her arms. She considers running back into the house for a sweater, but dismisses the thought as quickly as it comes. She'll warm up as they walk, and then...

Beth's cheeks tingle when Daryl glances at her, mouth twisting like he can hear the thoughts she's shouting down. He doesn't comment, though; doesn't offer her his vest like she half-dreads he would. That's what Jimmy would do and they've talked enough about Jimmy tonight.

Daryl merely turns his back to her and she takes firm hold of his crossbow strap. She's surprised when she realizes that the canvas doesn't irritate her hand like it usually does. This has been going on long enough and she's held onto him hard enough to give her calluses on her palm.

She already had calluses; she grew up on a farm, after all, and before her family deemed her a risk to herself she did as much work as any of them. Certainly more than just feeding the chickens. But in the past weeks that's been different. She's felt the difference in her muscles but in her skin too. Felt herself softening like a block of melting butter, even as her thoughts grew more furious and jagged.

She has calluses on her hand again. He gave her body a chance to do that. It almost makes her want to cry, and for once she doesn't think she'd mind much if those tears broke through. If he asked about them she'd tell him the truth, too.

She doesn't cry, though, and he doesn't ask. They follow each other across the field, wispy clouds making the moonlight almost ghostly.

Trusting him to keep her on steady ground, her eyes drift to the dark woods that rise as ever at the edge of her vision. She thinks about Shawn. About the photograph hanging on his wall until Daddy took it down and moved it to the attic. At Maggie's insistence, probably, after she found Beth looking at it. Not drowning, not quite, but submerged, on the edge of tumbling deeper.

She looks at the woods on the edge of their property, the woods where she'd watched her siblings shoot but never wandered into alone. No, she doesn't think she did. She always had the fields when she needed to be alone, the towering grass that she could hide in, watch the clouds float by or read a book or braid the strands together until her fingers were raw and sticky from the sharp edges and the sap. Even under clouds there was sunshine, but the woods were different; are even more different now, with the dangers that live beyond fairytales.

She's been places. She hasn't seen the world, not nearly, but she went beyond that line of trees, once upon a time. She's been to Savannah and Santa Monica for a wedding and Disneyworld, twice; traveled with her high school French class to Amiens and truly felt for the first time the smallness of her little life, of how much else was out there. Was. Now, accompanied or not, those trees feel like a wall she can't breach. And who would want to, with the farm's safety, its memories...

 _Staring at herself in the bathroom mirror, seeing herself but not seeing; like that condition she learned about in psych class, where people stop being able to see faces. Looking in the mirror and seeing nothing more significant than a patch of earth pulverized by the plow. Wanting to smash it with the hard part of her skull until her nose bled and her forehead cracked because maybe she'd see herself then; but hearing Maggie and Lori's voices before she could, and the terror—that this wasn't just in her mind, that when she opened the door they would stare, stare at the girl without a face—and she smashed the mirror with a hairbrush and dragged it across her wrist because she wanted to be_ out _; to go to places she now would never reach, and maybe if her insides met the air she would be a few moments closer..._

“Beth. Hey.” Beth looks up and blinks at Daryl looking down at her, his outline hazy until her vision solidifies and she can see him as well as she sees anything else under the moon.

They've reached his tent. Have been standing here for a little while, she realizes, long enough to put a worried crease between his brows. Her hand is still wrapped around his crossbow strap but she sees his fingers twitching like he wants to reach out and make sure she's real too.

“Sorry. I was...” She hesitates, looks at him.

_Here she's honest._

“How many bad things need to happen before a good place isn't good anymore? Before just being there makes you bad too?”

Daryl sucks in a sharp breath through his nose. He shifts uncomfortably but doesn't look away from her.

“Never had a good place.” His mouth twitches like an attempt to lighten his words. “I'm always there. A'int much good about that.”

“Stop,” Beth says. She's a little surprised by how strong her voice is. But not really. She lets go of his crossbow so she can step in front of him, curl her hand around the edge of his vest instead. She doesn't break his gaze either. “Don't do that. You're _my_ good place.”

Daryl blinks and ducks his head, looks at her hand on his vest. He seems to be wrestling with something and she doesn't rush him; keeps her eyes on his face as flames lick at her cheeks.

When he looks up, though, his face is carefully controlled. Blank, like unpainted shutters.

“I'll stay close again,” he says. “A'int heard nothing, but... in case.”

“Yeah,” she says, swallowing down the sudden ache in her chest. “In case.”

He nods, and when he pulls away from her hand on him she doesn't hold on. Lets her hand fall limply to her side as he doesn't even wait for her to enter the tent; turns and strides away with long steps, not stopping until the dark swallows him whole.

* * *

Beth lies in the dim light of the lamp, hands linked across her stomach. She knows she's wasting her own time but decides to ignore that knowledge; focuses instead on what she can see of the nylon ceiling above her, its angles arching like the sides of the cathedral in Amiens. Beth remembers stepping inside on an unremarkable afternoon in June and looking up, up, the tour guide's voice sliding past her as the world went quiet.

She's never been more than a down-home Protestant; her daddy believed in God and her daddy was good so God must be too. She followed the rituals of her little town because it was all she knew; and even when she went to high school and her friends got smartphones and the world got wider, she didn't turn on her faith like so many of them did, like Maggie sometimes pretended to. She said her prayers before bed and went to church with her parents on Sundays and even when she doubted herself, it never occurred to her to doubt God. She might never see Him or hear Him, not in this life, but He was with her. That's all she knew.

_Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be frightened, and do not be dismayed, for the Lord your God is with you wherever you go._

But standing beneath the dome of the Cathedral of Amiens... she understood why the ancients were compelled to build such a place. Her passive belief felt horribly naïve, horribly; she had thought, but she didn't _know_ , could never have known, not before stepping beneath that vaulted ceiling towering so high that without the electric lights no candle could hope to light its farthest shadows. The cavernous, echoing reaches, the stained glass that seemed to emit light of its own accord, the great trembling stones... she took one step and then another and for the first time in her life she _felt_ Him in the room with her; felt Him like she felt the strange warmth of the walls when she touched them, like they had taken hold of every prayer ever said in this place, saved them, waited for someone able to listen without flying apart from the pain of it.

She'd forgotten about that day. Even before Mama got sick. Going back to life, to the classroom and the grocery store and then home and its sweet mundanity... how could any of it have been real? The wonder she believed in for those brief minutes, believed deeper than her bones?

She knows it for the fancy it is. Knows her mind is overtaxed and she's been too full of memories today. But something in the tent's reflective fabric, the weak lamplight straining to reach it... she feels herself in that cathedral again, but glass has worked its way into the dome instead of stone; and even with no sun to shed light it seems set aflame.

She sheds her pants and panties, lets them drop without concern beside her and spreads her legs wide, breathing in deeply as the night air threads between them, lifts the now familiar scent to her nostrils. Not familiar like it was when she would touch herself in her bed, only emerging when she threw back her covers with the morning and wrinkled her nose at the stale musk that had dried beneath the sheets. Familiar like it's become without her even noticing; fresh in the open air, rising as natural as petrichor after a storm, the smell of past rains beneath it; and when she realizes that the second is no fantasy but the smell of herself from the night before, still sunk in Daryl's sleeping bag...

She doesn't know if he even sleeps. Doesn't know if he would go inside the bag or stay atop it like she does. But whatever he does, she knows without a doubt that he smelled her the second he entered the tent. The moments he crouched outside and was suddenly too close and his nostrils flared, they _did_ , she wasn't imagining: He smelled her arousal smeared across his bed like holy oil splashed on the floor after a baptism and she's moaning before her hand even lands between her legs.

She dispenses with her usual finesse, the slow and careful way she builds herself up; dips her fingers between her lips and doesn't even pause to register the wet pooling there, simply drags it up and over her clit and her hips jump just with that, with that, a moan curling through the air as she works herself, a single finger on her clit as her fallen legs keep her spread open to herself, invite the shock of cool air against her hot and swollen flesh and the dampness that has already spread to her thighs.

She doesn't bother to look; leans against the propped-up pack with her eyes closed and her lip between her teeth, her free hand clutching absently at the sleeping bag and then at her thigh, hiking it higher and spreading wider to find that burn in her hamstrings like she used to feel when she was running.

Her body melts into the pack and the sleeping bag as her consciousness recedes farther and farther, replaced with the sucking emptiness she seeks when she comes here, whenever she reaches between her legs with the time and intent to lose herself. She never remembers afterwards where she goes, what replaces the words that spin and spin and never stop; all she knows is the cavernous black behind her eyelids and the feeling that a balloon is swelling in her brain, pushing aside all function but that which keeps her moving, keeps her blood flowing and swelling her lips and her breath coming faster and louder, moans as her throat opens and closes and squeezes the silent flow of air into sound. Sound like last night, an abandon that would shock her if shock were a feeling she was capable of like this.

She doesn't need to reach to find the wetness anymore; it's defied gravity, climbed from her hole to her clit and even with a slight cramp entering her wrist the glide of stimulation feels effortless. She's wet everywhere, even where she isn't; feels like the sleeping bag is a raft in the middle of the ocean, the waves tossing and churning and flinging their spray across her, soaking her skin and the little clothing she wears. The water could rise and she wouldn't notice, wouldn't even mind; would open her mouth farther and suck the flood inside.

She doesn't think she's ever wound so tight so fast; feels like she's just started and she's already tipping towards the edge, the haze of language clinging to the curve of the balloon making itself known: how for the first time the thought of hands on her, other hands, larger and rougher and clumsy and strong, is not a fancy or a want, but a _need_.

She throws her head back and lets her mouth hang open, pants and whines loud in the still air, the hand hooked around her thigh traveling restlessly again, scratching the sleeping bag and her own hip and sliding without thought under her shirt and up her ribs, catching a breast and squeezing around the handhold. Meager it may be but it's _soft_ ; soft until it's not, her nipple wrinkled and screwed tight as her arousal climbs and she rasps her calluses across it, feels in them the rougher scrape of canvas and a palm that handles such roughness so much more often than she, and she cries out as he looms over her again. Her hands become his and her pussy and breast feel tiny beneath them, engulfed and engulfing as her heels drag against the sleeping bag, her cunt clenching around nothing as he slides a finger inside her, a finger and then two, and she's never been touched like this by someone else, never, and even in her own mind it's an exultation, those thick fingers seeking the depths of her caverns, walking through space across stones and feeling the presence of God–

Her body freezes and she snaps back into herself like a rubber-band, squeezes her throat against the whine threatening to protest such whiplash. She feels ready to burst in about ten different ways; the precipice of ecstasy she'd been racing towards, the breath she clutches inside herself because if she didn't she'd be moaning again, thrashing, wouldn't be able to hear...

And there it is again: A sound outside like a breeze echoing in the trees; but the trees are far and there's little breeze. A sound like a wounded animal crying to itself so the wolves prowling nearby won't hear. A sound like beating wings slapping the wind, and when they catch against the edge of the tent, bulging inside and sending the shadows dancing...

“Daryl?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DUN DUN DUN!


	12. Book of Revelation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beth discovers what waits for her beyond the walls of the tent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so desperately grateful to everyone for being patient as long as you have. Writing this chapter was like pulling teeth and in the end I just had to slam the door and yank the whole bloody mess away.
> 
> I hope it's worth the wait <3

> **_"Behold; I have set before you an open door, which no one is able to shut." –_ Revelation 3:8**

  


“ _Daryl?”_

Her gasp is not the whisper it means to be. It punches out of her with the force of everything she's holding inside; would have been a shout if it weren't thinned by her tightening throat, the rapid beats of her heart it just manages to squeeze between.

It's gone silent outside; silent within too, save her shallow breaths and her pulse pounding in her ears. She struggles to calm herself so she can hear, have some sort of sense...

It could have been an animal. A deer or a bear sniffing around that she startled off when she spoke. But she can't imagine an animal large enough to hit the tent as high as it did getting past Daryl; there's no reason he wouldn't have shot it the moment it emerged from the woods, get a nice meal for all of them. And a person... a person they don't know... an additional spike of panic surges through her when she thinks of someone catching him off-guard, killing him quickly and silently and moving on to the tent...

But someone like that wouldn't have stayed outside. Wouldn't hesitate to investigate, to...

And Beth flushes down to her toes. Because anyone who got that close to the tent would have heard her. Would have known what was happening inside. And if that person were vicious enough to take on Daryl, if they were one of the men the group ran into...

They wouldn't have hesitated. They would have heard her moans and known, would have _known_ , would have wasted no time entering the tent, clapping a hand over her mouth so her screams wouldn't reach the house. They'd take their time. Daryl would be gone.

It all comes back to Daryl. And Beth feels a hope as perverted as fear as she opens her lips and whispers his name again.

No movement for a beat, two. Beth's hands shake where they rest against her skin, and it's only when the front of the tent flutters and begins to unzip that she registers the wet and the heat on her fingers. She squeaks, pulling her hand from between her slammed closed legs and fisting it in her shirt to try to dispel the sheen of moisture. The other hand flies from her breast to grip the sleeping bag, clutching it like a weapon—and christ, her knife, does she have time to reach for her knife–

She knows she doesn't. Not anymore. Not when the zipper has reached the end of its track and the flaps flutter as if they themselves hesitate. Not when she says his name again, stronger, more sure, her tongue curling around the syllables like a caress.

His eyes are the first things she sees and they make her gasp. His pupils cover his irises like an eclipse and the edge of blue around them seems to shimmer, to blaze in the darkness as he moves forward, gaze flicking to her bare legs before leaping to her face, and then somewhere past her left shoulder.

He pauses half in the tent and half out, then hurriedly pulls the rest of himself inside, everything about him hunched. She remembers a video she saw in science class, a simulation of what happens inside a black hole. A basketball crumpling in at odd angles, folding in and around itself until it's packed tight enough to disappear.

“Daryl.” His mouth opens, then closes. His eyes have turned to the floor of the tent directly beneath himself. Even in the dim light she can see the tips of his ears are bright red, and she suspects his cheeks are too. She shifts in her seat and is acutely aware of the way her thighs slide against each other. But she's calm. Unearthly and calm, like she's been sucked into that black hole too. But her, it doesn't crush. “Daryl, what are you doing?”

He glances up, but not far enough to reach her. Maybe her toes, scrunched in the sleeping bag, but he glances away before she can be sure. There is so much shame radiating off his skin that she can barely breathe.

In fact, she can't tell if he's breathing. He's so deathly still, and she wants...

She doesn't want that word in a sentence with him. She doesn't want him to feel shame around her, for whatever reason, and she's beginning to guess... his bowed head, the exposed nape of his neck like he's baring it for a blow, the shifting shadows in his lap...and because his eyes are squeezed shut she lets herself look closer. See the belt pulled through the metal but not secured on a prong, his jeans only half-zipped, fabric straining against the button because underneath...

Beth's face flares too, but she doesn't feel shamed or exposed. She feels the flush spread down from her cheeks to her chest through the rest of her body, tingling in her cunt.

“I...” she says, mind racing, searching for words that won't destroy what they have forever. Whatever they have.

It's always come back to the truth. She has to start there.

“You were t–, touching yourself, weren't you?” she says. “Listening to me?”

Daryl's teeth grind together so loudly that she can hear them like a mountain shifting before an avalanche.

“Were you... were you thinking about me?”

“The fuck kind of question–“

“Could'a just been... I dunno. Could'a been thinking about anything.”

“We can't talk about this,” Daryl says hoarsely.

“We have to,” Beth says. It comes out stronger than anything she's said so far, and that's a start, she thinks. That's a start. She sucks in a breath, smells him from where he sits. His scent is filling up the tent in a way it never has; they've never shared the space this long, and it's heady, his smoke and leather and something new, something closer to the liquids smeared across her thighs, the way his clenched hands tremble. She doesn't let herself look towards his middle, what he's crouched around, but their twin awareness of it is as sharp as her arousal in the air. “I think about you.”

Daryl's face falls open. He looks more shocked by this than anything else so far.

“Me?”

“Yeah,” Beth says. She takes a moment to be proud of how steady her voice is. Not deep and distorted like some alien thing either. She sounds like herself, and that more than anything presses her on. “I didn't at first, I... I never meant to. But I did. I do. I think about what would happen if...” Beth trails off, blinking, and a giggle erupts from her throat. She presses a hand to her mouth, trying to contain herself, but it's too much. The absurdity is too much.

“If what?” Daryl asks, the look in his eye comfortingly familiar. He thinks she's lost it, but there's something underneath, a wellspring of warmth that tells her he isn't mocking her. Not ever.

“If you came in,” Beth says. She giggles again, bites her lips to try and stop. “Usually goes a little more smoothly than this, though.”

“What's it go like?” he whispers.

Beth swallows, cheeks flaming, acutely aware that the flood of liquid between her legs hasn't slowed. If anything, it's thickening.

“You... you come in,” she says. She straightens her posture, lifts her chin. “You come in and you touch me and thinking about that helps me come.”

He whimpers, a tiny noise in the base of his throat. His hands flex and she wonders if they've tapped into the same thoughts: if he remembers what she's felt when she's imagined his hands on her, in her, his body pressing hers into the ground.

Maybe he's thought about it too.

“What were you doing, Daryl?” she asks. She's surprised for a moment by the desperation in her tone. She told him her secret—its barest bones—but if he doesn't share it; if he was out there but it was to keep her safe, just like he said, if she got this wrong...

She wouldn't die from the mortification. She knows not to exaggerate what it comes to that word, not anymore. But she wouldn't be able to do this again. She wouldn't be able to speak with him, look him in the eye. Life would go back to what it was before: shadows on her bedroom ceiling, nothing for her to fight with. Nothing of her own.

He isn't avoiding her gaze anymore. Is looking at her with as much ferocity as he ever has.

“I was,” he says. “Thinking about you. Touchin' myself. I was.”

Beth breathes in sharply, struggling to swallow past her galloping heartbeat. Moments ago she was wishing he would look at her and now she's on the edge of begging him to stop; give her a moment to _breathe_ , to process that this man would think...

That he'd think what she's been thinking. About coming in.

“What now?” she whispers.

That chases some intensity from his gaze, makes him look shaken again. But he doesn't move his eyes from hers.

“I ain't gonna... you're safe, Beth. I don't expect nothing.”

“I know,” she says. Then she laughs. Again he looks at her like she's nuts, but she thinks he smiles a little too. “Daryl, I'd never think... I'm safe with you. I know that.”

Daryl blinks at her, soft in the lamplight, and Beth knows what to do.

It doesn't even feel like courage when she relaxes back until she's propped against the pack again and with a sigh of relief untightens her muscles so her legs can drop open.

Daryl keeps his eyes on her face for a few more moments before flicking them down. Beth's heart pounds as she watches his Adam's apple bob through a deep swallow, his nostrils flare and _it's from the source now_...

“I... what do you want, Beth?” Daryl asks— _breathes_ , like the muscles in his throat have forgotten how to work—and Beth only realizes she's breathing heavily when her fingers brush the crease of her thigh and that breath stutters.

Her eyes drift over him: cast in shadows and somehow all the larger for it, a noticeable tremor running from his bare shoulders to his fingers where they slump by his hips, curling around nothing. The light is dim but not so dim that she can't find what she's looking for between his legs; how he shifts his weight every few moments as if to alleviate a strain, or to rub himself against his jeans like she's done before, seek out that brief spark of pleasure...

“Show me.”

His eyes hesitate in flicking to her face—he seems to need to drag them up by their bones, the effort making him breathe even more heavily—and when his eyes meet hers, glazed and needy, she doesn't think she's felt a rush of power so heady in her life.

“Wh-what?”

“Show me.” With three fingers she pets herself. If her legs were closed the pressure wouldn't even part her lips, but she's already laid open; she feels the thatch of her pubic hair but her middle finger presses directly against her clit and she jumps, gasp caught in her throat as Daryl's hand closes around his own thigh, squeezing like...

Like he's trying to avoid squeezing something else.

“What you were doing outside,” Beth says, hand hovering, almost nervous about touching herself again with how sensitive she is, how exquisitely close to pain that brief touch had been. “I wanna see... Daryl, show me, please.” She gives a breathless laugh and he looks at her like she's the only thing worth looking at on Earth. “I'm already showing you mine.”

He expels his own breath, shakes his head with something like amazement. “Christ, girl...”

“Come on,” she says, voice thick but teasing too and while the air remains heavy and cloying around them, she senses something new enter the tent.

Fun. The fun they could have. In a world of misery and monsters, the two of them.

Daryl moves his legs out from beneath himself. In the confined space of the tent his calves practically cross hers and she bumps his leg just to make him stutter, to make him aware of their positions in space. She giggles at his attempt at a scowl, watches fondly the smile tickling his lips as he reaches down to cup himself.

His face's transformation is instantaneous, an expression almost like surprise flicking through his eyes. For a moment they flutter closed as he kneads himself. Beth waits until they open, blazing, before looking down.

A breathy moan escapes her, finger pressing down on her clit to chase the spike of heat that comes from the sight of him: hips jerking into the pressure of his hand like he can't help it, like he doesn't even notice his body's movements, like he could get off just like this. His erection was already visible against his jeans but now with his hand working across it she has a better idea of its shape, its weight and heft, and she's never felt as delightfully _greedy_ as she does now, knocking his leg impatiently.

“Let me _see_ ,” she demands, and if it comes out more petulant than she'd like that's fine, she doesn't care, she doesn't _care_ about anything except getting this man out of his goddamn pants.

Daryl at least seems as desperate as she feels; he mutters a quiet curse, squeezing himself one more time before fumbling at his belt, his zip, flying through each step and before she can fully prepare herself for what's happening he's gasping out a desperate breath and tugging himself free.

Beth can't say this is the moment it becomes real. She has her pussy flying in the fucking wind, filling the air between them with her arousal, the secret of what she looks like, legs spread and flushed pink. She isn't floating in a dream, she isn't staring down a tunnel into never-ending space and darkness, she isn't lost the way she didn't know she could be lost until these past few months.

But something changes in the core of her the moment he pulls her dick out. And it has nothing to do with the fact that she's never seen a naked man in the flesh, although she hasn't; it has nothing to do with the spark of lightning the sight sends down her spine and directly to her pussy, although it does; it's...

She meets Daryl's eyes, blinking a few times to focus through all her other overstimulated senses. Her hand is still between her legs but it isn't moving. His hand isn't moving either; he's holding himself but it's his chest pumping back and forth, mouth hanging open as he sucks in air desperately, well on his way to hyperventilating.

He doesn't break her gaze like she expects him to. Looks at her through pupils blown wide, his expression full of lust and something like awe.

She bites her lip and looks down, rubbing herself again as she takes in the sight of him, thick in his palm. The image isn't novel. She's watched porn; she knows what an erect dick looks like. But this is different. So different, and she always expected it would be, knew it would be, knew everyone in those videos was engineered and groomed and fraudulent. In the harsh light of the studios they appeared automatons, like she could peel back the skin with a knife and find nothing but aluminum and wires beneath.

Even hard—and he's _hard_ , she knows that much, knows what the glistening liquid pooling against his knuckles is and that knowledge makes her blood race—even hard he doesn't look familiar. It could be the lamplight, hiding as much as it reveals, or how his hand trembles and his pulse pounds visibly in his throat. He's accepted this, he wants this, but she thinks he's frightened. Frightened of her, of how he feels ( _what does he feel?_ she wonders fleetingly before grasping the thought and folding it away, saving it for a time without electricity in the air), of getting caught... of all of it.

But blood pumps through his body—makes him hard—makes him want her. Makes him groan in the back of his throat and drag his hand up his cock and, in a moment that steals her breath, back down, pulling away the pocket of loose skin and revealing his cock-head, plump and stained like a plum.

She almost abandons herself. Almost pulls her hand from between her legs and lurches forward, crawling on her knees like a wounded wolf dragging itself through the woods, lowering her head and taking that swollen flesh into her mouth. Feeling him where his veil is thinnest, pressing her tongue to his glans and matching the beat of his heart to hers, thundering through her whole body down to the tips of her toes.

She doesn't move from where she lies except to shimmy down, spread her legs wider. Watch Daryl's eyes settle, hooded and lost, on her first two fingers lying over her clit. She holds her breath and feels it pulse and she _wants_.

He's pounding, shimmering, pulsing in the lamplight and the truth of everything he's given her flows through her veins like fire.

He's _alive_.

And if he's alive...

Maybe she is too.

Beth breathes in deeply, exhales, forces the tension from her muscles so she can touch herself like she's used to. Like she isn't being watched. Like this is just for her. She runs the tip of her finger across her clit, pulls back the hood to press on the base, sweeps down with more fingers to gather the rush of wet coming from inside of her, feel the glide and the sweet ache pounding through her abdomen.

She whimpers and wants to drop her head back, close her eyes and revel in the feeling, the absence of words in her mind; but she doesn't. Because she isn't alone. Because the noise that slipped from her seems to have triggered something in Daryl because he groans too, eyes fluttering but not closing as he strokes himself again, less halting, more sure. He looks at her with an expectant spark in his eyes and she moans again; from her fingers moving steadily now but also for him, because he's listening, because the sound flows between them and lowers his shoulders, bows his spine, loosens his skin even as the muscles in his arm twist and flex, pumping up and down.

The movement isn't practiced, not at all, and she half-wonders if she's given him something new, done something more miraculous than she'd believed herself capable of, but the thought is fleeting; it darts across the surface of her mind but doesn't stay, dissipating like a cloud as the pleasure singing in her veins overpowers it, the quiet slaps growing louder as Daryl's hand speeds up and hers follows, mouth dropping open as she watches him jerk in his own hold. When he swipes his thumb across the head of his cock she scrambles at her pussy with her other hand, trying several angles, twisting until she's sure he can see, sliding a finger inside herself with such ease that she groans in frustration, adds one and then one more and the stretch doesn't burn nearly as much as the fire of Daryl's gaze as his hips jerk forward like he could replace her fingers, like he _is_ her fingers, and when she realizes she's fucking herself to the same rhythm that he's fucking his fist she cries out, feels his shadow above her even as he sits feet away. A constant growl builds in his throat, growing louder in the echoing space, his cock-head visible even when his hand strokes upward.

“Daryl,” Beth moans, speeding up on her clit, fucking herself with two fingers now because she's too frantic to waste energy trying to stretch herself, cares only about Daryl and his hooded eyes and the strong rough hand tugging himself towards her, the flush suffusing his face and the ragged groan ripping from his throat as his spine curves, his free hand scrabbling at the tent floor as his moans punch her in the sternum, her own voice answering in kind until some kind of light flashes behind her eyes and her body's seizing, language abandoning her except for the word, one word, _her name_ , spilling from his lips in desperate gasps as his cum does the same, shooting from his dick and speckling her thighs as they thrash into her second orgasm, as her eyes finally close, skin singing, body opening, his voice ragged and broken and awed.

 _Beth–_...

 _Beth_ , he gasps.

_Oh god. Beth, my god._

 

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know what you think!


End file.
